by Rosie Clarke
‘I think Jonathan will lend me something. He told me they have an assortment of vehicles about the place and there’s usually something available.’
‘How are you going to get there?’
‘By taxi I think,’ he said. ‘Are you being met – or can I give you a lift?’
‘We can share the taxi if you like,’ Beth said, ‘and I’ll pay my half. It will be better for both of us that way.’
‘No need for that, I’m not hard up.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that…’ He seemed a little touchy suddenly. ‘Sorry if I offended you… I just thought it was fairer if I paid my way…’
‘Fine, if that’s what you want,’ he said, smiling again. ‘I wonder how long it will take them to get the Wizard of Oz over here. I’ve heard they are getting large crowds to see it in New York…’
Beth liked the way he changed the subject. In fact, she liked him more all the time and she was grateful to the rowdy young soldier who had brought them together. Had it not been for that incident they might have parted without doing more than nodding in passing.
*
‘There you are, Beth,’ Annabel said as she entered the private sitting room that evening. ‘I heard the taxi arrive and thought it must be you, as we haven’t any new guests due at the moment. Did you have a lovely time at Georgie’s?’
‘I always do,’ Beth replied. ‘You know I’m fond of her and Arthur – but he isn’t at all well. I think she is very worried about him.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Annabel said and wrinkled her brow. She was an exceptionally attractive woman with sleek, pale blonde hair, which she wore in a shoulder-length bob. Her clothes, shoes, make-up were all immaculate and she looked what she was, a successful woman in her own right, confident and happy. ‘She rang me earlier to say you were on your way. She was telling me that the doctor wanted Arthur to go into hospital for tests but that he had refused.’
‘He thinks it’s a waste of time,’ Beth said and looked sad. ‘Apparently, the weakness runs in the family and he doesn’t believe the doctors can help him. Says he doesn’t want to be pulled about for nothing.’
‘He might think of Georgie! What is she going to do if he dies?’
‘I suppose he believes she will get over it,’ Beth said. ‘I know she is very upset, but it wasn’t exactly a love match, was it – not like you and Paul?’
‘No, that’s true,’ Annabel admitted and wrinkled her brow. ‘I believe there was someone else but he was married, and Georgie wasn’t the kind to break up a marriage – nor was he.’
In fact, the man in question was Annabel’s own brother and Georgie had told her about it at the time, but she had never spoken of it to anyone else and didn’t intend to reveal any details now. If Georgie wanted Beth to know, she would tell her.
Beth nodded. ‘Well, divorce isn’t pleasant, is it? Look at all the fuss they made over the Duke of Windsor and Mrs Simpson. I always felt so sorry for his brother – having all that work thrust on his shoulders because they wouldn’t let Edward marry her.’
‘The Duke of Windsor made his choice,’ Annabel said, an odd look in her eyes. There was a time when she too had had to make her choice. ‘It was a question of love or duty and he chose love. I can’t blame him, but like you I thought they should have let him marry the woman he wanted and still be the king – but that’s only my opinion. The people who mattered didn’t agree.’
‘Well, that’s all over now,’ Beth said. ‘We’ve got worse things to worry about, haven’t we?’
‘You mean the war?’ Annabel looked anxious. ‘It’s coming and soon I expect. I don’t like it, Beth – but there’s nothing we can do to stop it. I’m worried about Hetty. I tried to telephone her this morning and couldn’t get through. Once the war starts we shall catch it in this country – but think how much worse it will be for her in France, if the Germans invade.’
‘Surely she will try to get home before anything happens?’ Beth said and looked at Annabel anxiously. She had made up her mind to tell Annabel this evening that she wanted to look for a job elsewhere. However, seeing how upset she was about the coming war and the very real possibility that her sister was going to be caught up in it, she knew she couldn’t add to Annabel’s problems. ‘Try not to worry too much just yet. Knowing Hetty, she could turn up on the doorstep at any moment.’
‘Yes, that’s very true,’ Annabel agreed. ‘But Hetty is so headstrong. She might decide she is going to stay on in France whatever the Germans do…’ A little shiver ran through her. ‘I am worried, Beth, I can’t deny it – but I’m going to try not to think about it too much.’ She smiled at the girl she loved as much as her own daughter. ‘We’ve been looking forward to having you home. Paula was asking earlier if it was really today that you were coming. I could hardly get her to bed, though she went in the end.’
‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all,’ Beth said and smothered her sigh. It looked as though she was trapped for the time being at least. ‘I’ve bought her a present – some pretty shoes I saw in London – but if she’s asleep she can have them in the morning.’
‘Save them until tomorrow,’ Annabel advised. ‘Otherwise she will want to wear them in bed. You know how she loves new shoes!’
‘That’s why I couldn’t resist these,’ Beth said and went to give Annabel an affectionate kiss.
She knew she was lucky to be a part of this family. They were loving and kind and she cared for them all, but she had hoped for a little independence when she left college.
‘Did you make any nice friends while you were staying with Georgie?’
‘No, not really,’ Beth said. ‘Georgie didn’t entertain much, except for a few old friends of Arthur’s. Besides, I was happy just to wander about by myself and relax. However…’ She smiled to herself. ‘I did meet someone rather nice on the train coming home. It was quite a coincidence. His name is Captain Andrew Bryant, and he is a distant cousin of Georgie’s father. He is going to stay at Kendlebury for a few days – and he’s coming to take me out for lunch tomorrow.’
‘How odd that you should meet like that, but fortunate. It will make a pleasant change for you to go out with a young man, Beth,’ Annabel said and smiled at her. ‘You mustn’t consider yourself tied here every moment. If you want time off, I shall understand – and if he is a friend of Jessie and Harry’s, we can trust him.’
‘Thank you. You are always so generous, but I want to do my share…’ While I stay here, she added silently. That wouldn’t be forever, but she would wait a while before she broached the subject with Annabel. With any luck, they would hear from Hetty soon and then they might all be able to stop worrying.
After all, there was no sense in Hetty staying in France if there was going to be a war, was there?
*
‘But it makes no sense for you to stay here in Paris, ma chérie,’ Madame Arnoud said and spread her hands in an expression of disbelief. ‘You are English not French. You should go home, get away from this madness before it is too late. Believe me, I am old enough to remember the last time the Germans paid us a visit. It was not pleasant.’
Although well into her middle years the Frenchwoman’s clothes, make-up and dark brown hair followed the latest mode and she looked both stylish and attractive.
‘But I feel more French than English these days,’ Hetty replied, wrinkling her nose at the older woman’s comment. ‘I have so many friends here and I love the life I’m leading – why should I give it all up?’
‘Because the Germans will make you suffer if they catch you out,’ Madame Arnoud said. ‘You will probably be sent to an internment camp, that’s if you’re not shot as a spy.’
‘Perhaps they won’t invade…’
‘Pouff!’ the Frenchwoman snorted her disbelief. ‘It is more likely that pigs will sprout wings. They will come, Hetty, believe me – it is merely a question of when.’
They were sitting in Madame’s private parlour drinking wine, something they
often did in the evenings when Hetty called to discuss her latest designs or simply to talk about what she had seen or done. They were good friends and had been for some years, since Hetty had first approached her rather tentatively with a design for an evening gown.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ Hetty agreed. ‘But there’s time yet, madame. I shall think about leaving when it becomes inevitable. Not that I’ve any idea of what I’ll do when I get back to England. It will be difficult to settle anywhere else but Paris. Oh, it’s such a shame that wars have to happen! Why must the Germans be so awful? Why can’t they just leave us alone?’
‘If we knew the answer to that the world would be a different place,’ Madame Arnoud said and offered a world-weary smile. ‘It is men who make wars, ma chérie, and we all know about them, do we not?’
Hetty laughed. At twenty-six years of age she had matured into a woman of some style, her hair a rich honey blonde that she wore long and in soft waves rather like Marlene Dietrich, the German film star with the gravelly voice, who had first made her name in the 1930 film The Blue Angel.
When at the age of seventeen she’d eloped to France to be with Henri, Hetty had been pretty rather than beautiful, but now she was stunning. Many of the artists she knew begged to paint her portrait, but these days she preferred to use the brush herself and earned a precarious living drawing quick sketches of the tourists, supplementing her meagre income with the work she did for Madame Arnoud.
‘Yes, of that there is no doubt,’ Hetty agreed. She had learned how selfish a man could be the hard way, weeping bitter tears the first time she’d discovered her lover, Henri, had been unfaithful to her with his latest model. She’d given up everything to come to Paris with him – her family home, the chance of marriage and a normal life – but she’d adored the fascinating artist who had challenged her to be bold. His betrayal had almost torn her in two that first time, making her weep into her pillow. He had told her he was sorry afterwards, swearing that the girl meant nothing and that it was her he loved. Hetty had forgiven him, but it had happened again, and again, until she woke up one day to discover that he no longer meant anything to her. It was over – the passion and love she’d had for him gone, destroyed by his lack of care for her. In the end, he was the one who had wept when she walked out on him, begging her to reconsider.
It had been hard at first without Henri, difficult to find work, her income barely enough to keep body and soul together, and lonely too. She had thought about going home to England, but something inside her had refused to give in – just as she had refused all the offers from Henri’s friends to take his place in her life. Whether that had been from pride, a lack of interest sexually in the men themselves or her fierce independence, she had never been sure, but she had remained alone. And gradually she had found a new life and new friends; she had won respect for her own work, both as an artist on the Left Bank and as a dress designer for Madame Arnoud.
She could have worked full-time for the woman who had become both a friend and almost the mother Hetty felt she’d never had, if she’d wanted to be a model or a vendeuse, but neither of those things appealed to her. Besides, she now earned enough to pay the rent of her little apartment and to be able to buy food and clothes. She had no interest in more and found the relaxed, pleasant way of living suited her nature.
She might not always have been happy, but her life was busy, interesting, and she made sure it stayed that way. Love was something she’d learned to do without when she was a small child. Her father had been a kindly but remote figure, her mother cold and severe; both Ben and Annabel had been generous and kind, but they were twins and closer to each other. In the early years she had wept bitter tears over her mother’s lack of affection, but then she had come to realise that it was something lacking in Lady Tarleton: she was a woman incapable of loving anyone other than herself and treated Annabel even worse than Hetty. Becoming independent and resourceful beyond her years, Hetty had found the best times were when she was in the kitchen with Cook and the maids who always had a soft word and a smile for her. And then Henri had come into her life and she’d given her innocent heart to him – a gift he’d taken and discarded without thought.
But Madame Arnoud was talking to her, scolding her, giving her the advice she knew she ought to take but was stubbornly resisting. Here in France she had a life, but there was nothing waiting for her in England.
‘You are foolish,’ Madame Arnoud told her. ‘Too stubborn for your own good, ma chérie. Paris will not be the same under the heel of the invader. You have no idea how bad it can be. I am thinking of closing my business and going to my cousin in the south. If I were not French, I would leave the country altogether. You have no real ties here, Hetty. Take my warning – go home now while you can.’
‘I shall think about it,’ Hetty promised, put down her empty wine glass and stood up. ‘Now I must go, my friend. I have an appointment for this evening.’
‘With a man I hope?’
Hetty shook her head and laughed. She had not taken a lover since leaving Henri and had no intention of doing so for the moment; there was no one who stirred her the way he had at the beginning, and once bitten twice shy. ‘With a group of friends. We shall drink wine, listen to music and talk of how the world should be put to rights.’
‘Pouff!’ Madame Arnoud grimaced. ‘Youth is wasted on the young. You have no idea how to live. Find yourself a rich man and marry him, Hetty – preferably an American who will take you somewhere safe and look after you. Americans make good husbands; they are polite and they work hard. The French are too lazy. Be a Frenchman’s mistress if you like, never marry one.’
Hetty laughed softly, kissed her friend’s cheek and shook her head over that particular piece of advice as she let herself out of the back door into the warmth of a summer evening. The heat had been oppressive during the day but now it was pleasant, the fragrance of flowers scenting the air. Drifting above the scent of the flowers was a smell that Hetty loved, the smell of the city itself: coffee, fresh pastries and something that was uniquely Paris but indefinable.
How could she leave this – the sunshine and colour, the vibrant city she had adored from her first moment here – and go home to the bleakness of England?
She remembered England as being bleak, though she knew that wasn’t entirely fair. It was her home but unhappy childhood experiences had tainted her memories of that country. It wasn’t like that at Annabel’s home, of course. Her sister’s hotel was warm, welcoming and beautiful, furnished with antiques, run efficiently but with all the comforts of home for the guests. And the garden was peaceful. Yes, she had been tempted to stay for a while when she’d visited, but Paris was in her blood and it had called her back. This city was her home now, these people her people.
She hated the idea of an invasion. It was hurtful to imagine what it might be like, to think of the people she knew so well being treated as a conquered nation. But perhaps it wouldn’t happen that way. Not everyone held Madame Arnoud’s opinion. The newspapers were still talking of France holding firm against any threat of invasion, and her friends were full of optimism that the Maginot Line would hold, but the mood of many older people she knew was gloomy. They seemed to think it only a matter of time before resistance crumbled and the Germans marched into Paris as they had in the First World War.
Hetty knew that already many art treasures had been evacuated to the safety of secret hiding places, and there was an air of apprehension hanging over the city. Many tried to be cheerful, but there were glum faces everywhere.
The war was inevitable now that the British Government had declared they would fight, of course. Hetty thought about her sister and realised she must write to her, tell her that for the moment she was fine, but if things became difficult she would try to get back.
Two
The few days Drew had planned to spend at Kendlebury flew by. He extended it by another three days, but then told Beth that he couldn’t stay any longer.
‘I have to
go home and see my mother,’ he said. ‘I doubt we’ll get much leave for a while now. I’ve been expecting a phone call to say this one has been cut short but it hasn’t happened, thank goodness.’
Beth was aware of a sinking sensation inside, but she smiled and hid her disappointment.
‘Yes, of course you must visit your mother. She would be upset if you didn’t.’ The war was official now, but although young men were queuing to join up nothing much seemed to be happening yet. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘I rang my mother this morning and told her I’d be home tomorrow.’
‘So this is our last evening.’ Beth swallowed hard. The prospect of parting was more painful than she’d imagined it would be. ‘It’s been fun. I shall miss you.’
‘Will you?’ There was an urgent note in his voice suddenly. ‘I shall miss you, Beth. I like you an awful lot – more than any girl I know actually.’
Her cheeks were pink as she looked at him, her heart racing like a young colt in spring grass. ‘I like you more than any other friend I’ve had, Drew.’ Not that she’d had any real boyfriends before him. She wasn’t the type to flirt and had usually gone out in a crowd.
‘There isn’t anyone else around then?’
‘You know there isn’t. I wouldn’t have gone out with you if there had been.’
‘No, I thought not.’ He was a little hesitant as he turned to her in the car. ‘Would you mind if I kissed you?’
‘I think I should like it very much – if you want to?’
‘Of course I want to. I’ve been longing to ever since we met on the train, but I didn’t want to seem too forward. You’re a nice girl, Beth, and I’d like us to be special. I don’t intend to rush things if you’re not ready.’
He was good-looking, intelligent and pleasant to be with, and it seemed that he liked her too. Beth was swept along on a tide of excitement.
‘I feel I’ve known you all my life. Please kiss me, Drew. I want you to, truly.’