She glanced at the laughing group again. She had not been wrong. Philippe was watching the animated Sally in a way that tightened the line of Charlotte’s mouth still further. Sally, apparently unaware, was talking to Hannah. Eyes narrowed, Charlotte stared at her: the girl could never be described as pretty. Her face was all bone, her skin dark as a gipsy’s in the sun, and those odd eyes and slanting brows made her look like nothing in Charlotte’s opinion so much as a skinny stray cat.
So why was Philippe, who had hardly spoken a word to Charlotte all morning, watching Sally with such open delight? Why had he spent so much time in her company these past few days? Why had he sought her out so openly – as now – whilst she, Charlotte, was ignored and neglected?
‘Rachel – will you stop fidgeting, or I’ll slap you!’
Rachel looked aggrieved. Ben looked at Charlotte, surprised. Charlotte looked away.
The morning was a long one.
When the Coronation procession at last wound its way out of the palace gates, however, and down the wide boulevard of the Mall, even Charlotte had to admit it was the most magnificent sight she had ever seen. The children cheered themselves into a frenzy as, harness jangling musically, the cavalry troops rode by, breastplates gleaming bravely in the sunshine.
Of the serious-faced King sitting in his coach of gold, the handsome palace servants and outriders accompanying him, Rachel asked her father, ‘Why isn’t he smiling?’
‘Because it’s a very solemn thing to be crowned a king. And I believe he’s a man to take his duties to heart. It’s no picnic to be King of England nowadays.’
The procession jingled into the distance. Rachel, fingers buried in her father’s mop of hair, squirmed to get down. ‘May we have lunch now? Mrs Briggs has made pork pie.’
They ate their lunch upon the pavement, not wanting to give up their favoured position by moving on to the grass in the park. The hurdy-gurdy man had moved nearer to them and the children capered to the music. Irritably Charlotte rubbed her forehead. ‘Do tell him to move on, Ben. The noise is quite making my head split.’
‘Ah, but Charlotte – see – the children are enjoying it so very much.’ Philippe folded his long legs and settled upon the rug beside her like a light and elegant crane-fly. ‘Let them dance – hmm?’ He cocked his head in a characteristic gesture, his eyes warm and smiling.
Pleased, she smiled sweetly and bravely. ‘Of course. My head really isn’t too dreadful. And you’re right – the children are enjoying it.’
He looked at her in unassumed concern. ‘A walk perhaps? Ben – Charlotte needs a walk – in the park perhaps, to clear her poor head?’
‘No, no.’ Charlotte said hastily as Ben glanced at her enquiringly. The last thing she wanted, having got Philippe by her side at last, was to be squired about the park by her husband. ‘I shall be perfectly all right, I promise you. I should have brought a parasol – but with so much to think about—’ she gestured with pretty diffidence at the group gathered about them as if only her own efforts had planned the campaign that had brought them here, ‘I quite forgot.’
‘But Sally has one. She’ll lend it to you, I’m sure.’ The young man leapt obligingly to his feet and within moments was back carrying a small, frilled parasol. ‘There.’ He opened it, shook out the frills and handed it to her.
She thanked him prettily, set the parasol at a becoming angle upon her shoulder, thus effectively blocking out the rest of the party, and patted the rug beside her invitingly. ‘Do please come and tell me all about your lovely Bruges. I declare that since we came back from the sea I’ve been so very busy I’ve had simply no time at all to talk to you. I feel positively guilty for neglecting you so! You must let me make it up to you.’
And so the time until the anointed King returned to his palace and the plaudits of his people passed pleasantly after all, in shared reminiscences, gentle, entertaining banter and – balm to Charlotte’s sore heart – compliments upon her appearance, upon the glow of health that Philippe perceived about her and, a little less pleasing, upon the grace and good behaviour of her beautiful daughter. And when Sally and Hannah declared their intention of going off to find the gingerbread lady as a treat for the children, Philippe did not move and it was Ralph, Charlotte saw with satisfaction, who jumped to his feet to accompany them.
‘Oh, I should so love to see Bruges again – and your dear Mama – and Annette – why, her little boy must be nearly three years old and I’ve never met him!’
‘Ah, yes. You must come. Mama speaks of you often. You are a great favourite of hers.’
And so it was a better-tempered Charlotte who made her way with the others to the omnibus stop later that afternoon and boarded the vehicle to return to Poplar. The streets were full of revellers and the journey was slow. Charlotte had contrived to sit next to Philippe, leaving Ben with Rachel. Sally, as was only fit, was somewhere in the midst of the children. When they arrived in the East India Dock Road the tired youngsters were ushered into crocodile file with Toby at the head and a brisk Sally bringing up the rear.
Hannah joined her. ‘They’ve been so very good. We should take them out more. Most of the poor little devils have never seen anything but their own back yard.’
Sally, who had not seen much more herself, grinned and nodded.
‘I’ve been thinking—’ as always when she became animated Hannah’s plain face lit with enthusiasm, ‘—what about an excursion? A day at the seaside?’
Sally glanced at her, interested but rather more than a little doubtful. ‘You mean it? Could we?’
‘I don’t see why not. We could go to Southend – or Clacton. That’s it – Clacton – the beach is better for the children. They run daily excursion trains from Liverpool Street – oh, Sal it would be such fun for them.’
And not just for them. Sally sucked her lower lip, trying to keep her own excitement down. She had never seen the sea. ‘You sure we could manage it? With all of them?’
Hannah’s enthusiasm roused was no easy thing to quench. ‘Why of course we could. With Toby there are fifteen children. Rachel makes it sixteen. There are—’ she counted, ‘—two – four – six adults. And Bron and the other two girls would probably want to come as well. Good Lord, that’s less than two children apiece. We’ll take a picnic, and bats and balls and we’ll buy buckets and spades—’ She turned. ‘Listen everyone – I’ve had the most splendid idea!’
Charlotte, suspecting rightly that she would be expected to help like everyone else, was not so sure it was so splendid; but she was overruled. ‘Philippe doesn’t want to be dragged to the seaside with a lot of children!’
‘Oh, but yes! At home we do it often.’ Philippe was delighted by the idea.
Even Ben was amused by the notion. ‘It might be fun, yes. And the fresh air would most certainly do the children good.’
‘It’s settled then. Tomorrow I shall make enquiries. Clacton. We’ll all go to Clacton.’ Beaming happily at her own inspiration, Hannah deftly caught a hairpin as it tried to escape from beneath the brim of her hat, ‘I really can’t think why we haven’t done it before!’
* * *
With Hannah, as usual, it was a case of no sooner the word than the deed. Quickly and efficiently she made the arrangements, whilst Sally cajoled and bullied Mrs Briggs into producing and packing the biggest picnic any of them had ever seen.
They were going to the seaside.
Most of the party that boarded the early morning excursion train at Liverpool Street the following Wednesday were excited to the point of explosion. True to form little Bessie had been thoroughly sick. Rachel, the only one of the children to have had first-hand experience of the seaside, had lorded it over them all until someone had surreptitiously but firmly pinched her and caused floods of tears and a reading of the Riot Act by Hannah. Yet still the journey was a gay one, and trouble-free – the children on the whole being so absorbed in the wonders of the countryside that flew past the windows that even the most gracel
ess had no time for mischief. The party being so big, they were split between two separate compartments which they had to themselves. Sally, her own intense excitement, she hoped, severely controlled, found herself with Hannah, Philippe and Bron. As she organized rotas of children to sit by the window, checked the baskets and bags upon the netted racks above their heads, separated the quarrelsome from the timid, put the tongue-tied amongst the talkers, Philippe watched her, smiling.
He smiled, too, when he held out a hand to help her from the train when they reached their destination. And as they tumbled on to the already crowded beach, squabbling and shrieking, fetching deck chairs, spreading rugs. They settled themselves between the pier and the small stage – empty at the moment – where a notice proclaimed that later in the day Popplewell and Pullan’s Yorkshire pierrots would perform. Though even in these relatively calm Essex waters there could be no question of the inexperienced children bathing, shoes and stockings flew as they were unceremoniously pulled off and dumped in a heap. Then the youngsters, who had gazed in amazement at the great, moving mass of water that lapped the sand and shingle beach, rushed to the water’s edge to paddle.
Rachel, shrieking with the best of them and clinging to Toby’s hand, was pulled up painfully short by her mother’s fierce grip on her arm.
‘And where do you think you’re going, young lady?’
Wise beyond her years, and for good reason, she swallowed childish temper. ‘To paddle, please, Mama.’
‘I think it best not.’
‘Oh, let the child go, Charlotte,’ Ben said easily. ‘You can’t keep her here with the rest up to their knees in the sea. Let her go.’
Charlotte released her grip. Toby and Rachel flew after the others. ‘She plays too much with that boy,’ Charlotte said coolly. ‘He’s too old for her. And besides—’ she stopped. Suddenly Sally’s eyes were on her, narrowed and sharp.
Ben had not caught her words. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte? What did you say?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
Sally sat back, relaxing. The sun sparkled on the sea like light on gemstones. From a row of huts further up the beach a group of young men and women emerged dressed in bathing costumes, the men in body-hugging, knee-length suits, the girls in bloomers or calf-length skirts, short puffed sleeves, bodices ruched and ribboned, many of them with their hair stuffed into frilled mob caps. Sally stared, taken aback. Giggled a little, beneath her breath.
‘Do you swim?’
The young man was beside her again, as he so often had been in these past few days, his dark eyes with that warm, confusing light glinting humorously in their depths fixed upon hers.
She shook her head. ‘Not me. I’ve never even seen the sea before.’
The young people splashed into the waves, squealing as the cold water washed upon their sun-warmed skin. She watched them, her face turned from him: but yet she was acutely, almost painfully aware of the regard of those dark, steady eyes.
A slim, fair girl in a navy and white costume gave a small scream as a wave lifted her from her feet and deposited her, neatly and with grace, into the waiting arms of the young man beside her.
‘You should try it. It’s a lot of fun.’ Philippe’s voice too held that undertone of humour, as if there were nothing in this life that he could bring himself to take entirely seriously. She stole a glance at him. When first she had seen him she had been disconcerted to find herself thinking that she had never seen a more attractive young man. She still thought so. Not that he had the startling, almost beautiful good looks of Jackie Pilgrim, which were steadily making themselves so embarrassingly apparent in Rachel, nor yet the fair handsomeness of Peter Patten. To some eyes, she supposed, he might appear a perfectly ordinary young man. He was tall and very slim. Everything about him was long; the sensitive face, the mobile hands, the lean body, the lanky legs. Yet there was an unflawed grace about the way he moved; and there was the humour, gentle, mocking, never far beneath the surface. These things were Philippe van Damme – and Sally, to her consternation, had discovered that they added up to a quite ridiculously disturbing whole.
‘Sally—’ he said. And, absolutely on cue, a shriek echoed from the waterside.
‘Oh, Lord.’ To her own amazement her voice sounded perfectly and placidly composed, ‘It looks as if Tommy’s trying to drown young Beggar. I really should try to stop him.’
They built sandcastles – supervised by Rachel – they played a game of cricket, though with some difficulty on the crowded beach, during which Toby managed to lose two balls by hitting them with such lofty power that no one saw where they went. After a picnic lunch those that wished paid their pennies to sit on the benches with Hannah and watch the pierrots. Bessie was lost and found, Toby disappeared for an hour or more and came back with a suspiciously angelic look on his face. Both the absence and the look – which no one else had noticed – Sally chose to ignore. It was three o’clock and an hour or so before they were due to pack up and leave that Philippe took her arm and said, ‘Mrs Briggs’s sausage rolls are wonderful, but so filling! Come for a stroll with me to – ah, what do you say in English? – to walk them off. I hear music. Shall we go to listen to the band?’
‘Oh, but—’ In some confusion Sally gestured to the chaos of children, rumpled rugs, buckets and spades and discarded shoes and stockings about them. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Nonsense. There are enough and more than enough to take care of the children. Bron?’ The girl looked at him, smiling shyly. ‘I shall take Sally to hear the band. You can manage without her for a moment, can’t you?’
Bron’s eyes flicked to Sally and the girl giggled a little. ‘Oh yes, sir. Of course.’
He pulled Sally to her feet. Her face was flushed with sunshine, her skirt sandy. Smiling, he offered his arm. Suddenly laughing she took it with a small flourish, and with an equally light-hearted show of perfectly silly gallantry he escorted her across the hot beach to the promenade.
Neither of them noticed the tightening of Charlotte’s mouth as they left. And not even Charlotte noticed the cool light in her husband’s eyes as he watched them stroll, laughing, across the sand.
The ornate bandstand where the band was playing was on the greensward beyond the beach. They stood for a moment listening, humming the pompous Sousa march. When Sally had tried to disengage her arm when the walking had become easier he had gently but very firmly resisted, so she stood with her arm linked in happy harmony in his, her head barely coming to his narrow shoulder. A soft breeze blew now, welcome and cool, ruffling the hair that had drifted from beneath the brim of her hat. The music changed. Philippe smiled, swayed a little to the music. ‘Oh, Danube so blue—’
Sally stood absolutely still. She hated that tune. Oh, how she hated it. Suddenly all the joy of the afternoon evaporated as if it had never been. ‘We should be getting back.’
He glanced at her in surprise, but with that sure instinct that was so much a part of him he gauged her sudden change of mood, shrugged and surrendered gracefully. ‘If you wish. But see—’ Across the road a brightly coloured barrow stood, festooned with balloons. ‘Ice cream. It is my passion. I insist – before we go back – that you let me treat you to one.’
They bought ice cream from the voluble Italian vendor, perched upon a bench to eat it. In the distance the band played again, oom-pa-pa, oom-pa-pa – Sally relaxed suddenly. How very silly. A tune, that was all. A stupid tune.
She turned to find his eyes full on her, and an expression in them that brought a sudden and uncontrollable flush to her face. For a long and disarming moment they looked at one another before, oddly enough, it was Philippe who turned his eyes away. ‘Shall we ask the ice-cream man to move a little down the beach? I should like to treat the children.’
They travelled home, sunflushed and tired, Hannah with her head unexpectedly on Ralph’s shoulders, sound asleep, Ben and Charlotte bolt upright each in their own corner, Rachel dead to the world upon her father’s lap. In the o
ther carriage Sally sat, head back, eyes half closed, a tousled sleepy head in her lap, Toby leaning heavily upon her shoulder, and upon her lips a small, almost unconsciously happy smile.
Chapter Eleven
I
‘Sally.’
The voice came from beneath the tree in the courtyard. Sally, hurrying from schoolroom to dormitory, stopped. Philippe unfolded his spare frame from the dusty ground where he had been waiting. The weather was sultry, the still air too hot to breathe. The children were fractious, the news nothing but bad. The strikes of seamen and ‘coalies’ at Britain’s ports seemed certain to spread to the docks and there was talk of army camps being set up in the parks of London. Britain and Germany snarled at each other’s throats over a far-flung unknown place whose name – Agadir – was suddenly on everyone’s lips.
Yet she smiled as he came to her, her narrow eyes warm. Since the outing to Clacton they had not seen each other alone; she had made very sure of that, knowing danger surely when she met it, almost certainly knowing better than him the gulf that lay between them.
‘You have a day off tomorrow,’ he said, with no preamble.
She was astonished. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
He did not bother to reply. Even he in this heat was a little rumpled. Sweat beaded his forehead, his white shirt was damp. ‘Ben has kindly agreed that I might take the motor car. I have some business in Kent – an associate of my father’s – I promised I would see him.’
She waited. Her heart was beating in an absurdly suffocating way.
‘Please. Would you come with me?’ His voice with its faint, attractive accent was soft. ‘I will take you to the country for the day, where it is cool, and green.’ He made that characteristic, lifting gesture with his long hands. ‘Please? You haven’t other arrangements?’
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