‘If you want to be –’
‘Oh, I do. I do. Then I can love him purely. And I can belong to a proper family and be all in one piece.’
That term, their last, they were prefects. It didn’t alter their way of life very much. They still leaned out of their cubicle windows, talking long after lights out. No other friend but Fanny. She supposed that they were fond of each other: like sisters perhaps, how she imagined sisters should be, so that she didn’t think, do I like her? But oh how she needed her, how they needed each other.
‘You took Fanny,’ Madge said one day, suddenly, bitterly, ‘you had her all to yourself. After you and her became friends none of us had a look in –’
It had been partly true. She and Fanny had been different. Not for them the exchange of holy cards: dear fluffy ones inscribed ‘To Vita in memory of…’ ‘Marion, remember that time in the dorm…’ Even their conversation had been different. Once when Fanny had made some joke about how babies were made, Babs had said, jolly but firm: ‘I don’t like girls who talk about that sort of thing.’
It was an incident early on that term which made her realize her need to defend, to protect Fanny. It was the Belgian nuns again. They had not grown any more popular and now that food was short (dishes of lentils where once there had been meat) they were suspected – unjustly really, Edwina thought-of getting privileges. They ate separately from the other nuns, in a special annexe. Their food could be seen sometimes laid out ready as the girls passed to the dining-room. It did not look privileged.
The same Soeur Clothilde who had once upset Babs, accused Fanny now of bad manners, and bad blood. Fanny, in tears of rage, said: ‘She told me I didn’t know how to behave with ladies and that I came of a bad family, “The tree is rotten” she said…’
That evening at supper Edwina brought in a small paper bag and emptied into it the contents of two salt cellars. The next day, excusing herself out of the last morning class, she went to the annexe. No one was about. A small bowl of stewed fruit lay beside each nun’s place. Carefully she scattered a teaspoon of salt on to each portion. Walking back to the classrooms, she felt much happier. And about ten years old.
‘I think you ought to know. Ben’s written to me. It’s been opened of course but it’s all right –’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Don’t be so assy impatient! Here’s the bit-he says he’s going off, he’s joining the Merchant Navy and he wants me (that’s you) to write –’
She got the precious sheet of paper off Fanny, holding it with her fingers shaking. ‘Your loving cousin,’ she saw.
‘… even though fishermen don’t have to go, we’re what they call reserved, I wanted to fight you see, there’s four gone already and Sal’s John last week… I knew you’d care to know and let others know…’
She said the next day, ‘I’m going to try and see him.’
‘You must be mad,’ said Fanny. She thought she probably was, but in the event it was only to think and plan, and to watch the tides. And not to tell Fanny. She lay in bed those three nights, waiting, thinking. She did not dare to feel. In the daytime she was exaggeratedly good. Fanny, who was making an elaborate novena for the Feast of the Precious Blood, noticed only to remark, ‘You’re in a funny mood.’
A crescent moon, moon enough to see by. Dressing up warmly, a dark gaberdine skirt from her mufti, a shawl, her galoshes in a drawstring bag, she listened carefully: heavy regular breathing to one side of her, suffocated snores to the other. She tiptoed down the centre of the dormitory – if anyone heard the boards squeak they would think only that she was going out to the lavatory – opening the door slowly, gently. All those years of creeping down at home, concealed outside the drawing-room, listening, listening. But this evening, to get downstairs was only to begin the venture. They can only expel me, she thought.
The clock struck one. She thought as she moved along the corridors: If a nun sees me now, I’ll say, ‘I couldn’t sleep, Mother, I thought a walk in the garden…’ But nothing, nobody. Just silence, half light, the creaking of the door.
She would like best to be some giant sea-bird, landing then on the rocks outside Bay, or better still on the red pantiles of the village itself, the roof of his home. As she crept now over the dry sandy grass – the garden just left behind – she thought, suppose I am taken for a German spy? Suppose, suppose. She wanted to be quickly down but she wouldn’t take a short cut. If she were to stumble, twist her ankle, if stones were to fall…
Then at last, down on the beach. when she stopped to rest for a moment, she felt her heart thudding. I am mad, I must be mad. Seaweed glistened in the moonlight, flat broad leaves, bubbles of bladderwrack. The sea itself, comfortably far out, rippled gently. There was little or no wind but the air was not close enough for thunder. She realized only then how much she had counted on the wind not freshening, on the weather holding. What would I have done if there’d been a blow?
The cliffs hung, threatening her. They had never done that before. Soft rock, that might fall. She had been creeping too close, it made her feel more invisible. She came out now a little. Wine Haven. Millers Nab. High Scar. Peter White Cliff. To remove the needle of fear, she named them, saying the words over and over again like a charm. Once, clambering over the wet shining slabs of stone, she stumbled and the salt water went up to her ankle, inside her galoshes, a damp stocking, a damp hem of skirt.
At Mill Beck she wondered if she should go inland and along the cliff top. But she kept to the shore, hating to stop even for a moment now because of the violent thudding of her heart. Perhaps she would die of fear.
The village lay hushed. Every pub shut, everyone abed for early rising. How still it was. And how great now the danger of discovery. Our Lady, Star of the Sea, who had’ guided her this far – Quietly, so quietly up the street. Don’t breathe. And then carefully, up the wooden steps to his room. The steps creaked and she stood frozen, waiting. She had not thought: how to make him hear? Suppose, oh God, after all this he isn’t there? Isn’t alone. She tried the door, dared to try the door. It gave, opened slowly, silently. And yes, he was there.
She touched his shoulder. The slightest of whispers: ‘Ben.’ Then again, ‘Ben.’ He stirred. She moved the sheet back a little. Through the curtains chinks of moonlight showed her the quilt, its pale and dark squares. And suddenly his eyes open, wide. Jesus, St Joseph, Our Lady, not to let him cry out.
‘Ah,’ was all he said, ‘Ah,’ as if she’d touched him, as if she’d touched him there. She whispered, ‘You’re not dreaming.’ She put out her hand. ‘It’s me, I came along the beach.’
He sat up. She saw he had his vest on. ‘You never,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘I did.’
‘You’re daft–’ But his voice sounded pleased, proud almost. She was crouching by the bed. ‘Shan’t I get asked to sit?’
‘Hush – keep your voice down.’ Already they were touching. The walls they’re thick, but it’ll not hurt to take care.’ He’d pulled back the bedclothes a little, climbed out. He sat on the edge of the bed. She was alongside. She said: ‘I thought you’d wear a nightshirt – you’ve got your vest and pants on, you’re funny.’ He said, ‘I’ve these on when we’ve to go out -to be ready quick like.’ She asked anxiously then: ‘Are the boats going out early?’
He had tight hold of her hand. ‘Not till five or six, and I’ll not be with them, I’ve things to do afore Friday. It’s just -I were lazy.’ Their heads were together, his breath, hot from sleep, on her cheek. ‘You’re that daft – to come here..
‘Do you mind?’
Their hands, joined together, lay on her knee. ‘What d’ye think? That’s daftest of all –’
She said, ‘I’m going to take some of my clothes off.’
There’s place in bed.’ His voice kept having a little choke in it. They were so awkward with each other. She thought, I should never have come, I don’t know what to do now I’m here. If I hadn’t, he could have gone quietly o
ff and forgotten me. The very idea made her sick and trembling.
‘Shall we lie together?’
‘Aye.’ Then as she climbed up he said desperately, ‘If I’ve said nowt, it’s not that –’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I love you.’ At first they just lay and talked. She said all the things she’d wanted to say. It seemed easy in the half darkness. And for him perhaps it was the same. He told her about going away, about the Navy: how he knew it was right, that he’d had to do it. ‘But when I come back, then –’
‘when you come back.’ His hands moved over her body as he spoke. She felt so warm, so secure. She had stopped too being afraid, stopped thinking of the danger. Why should she, how could she be discovered?
‘Get in bed, there’s place – you feel starved.’ But she wasn’t cold. And if she shivered it was with happiness, to be like this. ‘I love you,’ she said.
Where the curtain wasn’t quite shut and the light came in, he pulled it tight. For a few moments they were silent. Their hands felt for each other. And then the fever began in the darkness. Mouth upon mouth just as she had remembered. Such clinging, and then the tongues that only a few seconds ago had been talking, lost, sucked up. Not explorers this time but desperate, those about to drown. Coming apart, only to join again, sinking, back down in the feathers of the bed. Then Ben above, over her so that she went down, down. If it was only this to drown… Softness and hardness, hardness and softness, everywhere the unexpected. Nothing as she had imagined. (What had she imagined?)
Wild drumming of her heart. Pounding in her head and the smell of danger. She was gripped so tight, his head buried in her shoulder, she could never have moved. It hurt at first, and she bit her lip because she couldn’t cry out. She thought she might break inside, that something terrible was happening.
‘I shouldn’t then–’
She said, ‘Oh but you must, you must,’ terrified now that he might stop. She had not broken, she would not break. He lifted himself – her breasts hurt where they had been pressed. She noticed then how heavily he was breathing, a stranger almost, but his hands she recognized, the smell of them, pushing back, her hair. ‘I love you-I shouldn’t then.’ They were hands guiding a boat. And now too, it hardly hurt. And it mattered not at all anyway, the hurt didn’t matter because although he was strange now, seemed a stranger, she had always known him. She was him.
Suddenly he lay beside her, panting into her hair. ‘I minded,’ he said; she thought he was crying, ‘I had to be careful…’ He began to cry in earnest, racked by great sobs. ‘I shouldn’t of – that’s all about it, I shouldn’t of.’
She whispered then, ‘It’s you they’ll hear.’ It was for her to stem his tears but she thought only that she would weep herself. She felt about for his fingers. Hands clasped again: so tight that she thought, how could they ever be prised apart?
‘I did make it worse, coming here.’
‘Never, you’re never to say that –’
‘Are you cross that I did?’ when he didn’t answer she said it again. He’d stopped sobbing. ‘Don’t ask daft questions.’ He was indignant. ‘Fondhead,’ he said.
‘You’re the silly one.’ They lay silent again. He seemed quite calm. Then: ‘I’ll have to look at time.’
‘It’s good there’s a moon,’ she said:
‘ “I see the moon, the moon sees me
God bless the sailors out on the sea…’’
Sarah used to say that’
‘Sarah?’
The nursemaid. I told you –’
Time wasn’t real. It could not be heard ticking. Perhaps they would be able to lie here for ever, talking in low voices.
She said: ‘Will you think of me, when you’re out on the sea?’
‘I’ll never think of owt else. Get away – I’d sink the ship.’
‘You’re laughing at me –’
‘Why not then?’ He said despairingly: ‘It’s that-or blubbing like a lass –’
There had always been a time to go: the end built into the beginning.
‘I ought to get ready.’ Her clothes felt strange, uncomfortable. Clammy to the touch.
“And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms shall embrace me…”
Fastening her blouse she shuddered: then trying to control herself, afraid he’d notice, she shuddered the more. So cold suddenly, so cold. An aching chill.
‘You are starved. If I could fetch you back only… I love you,’ he said. ‘You’ll mind always I love you?’
Charm against all the monsters that lurk in the deep. I love you, I love you. Our Lady, Star of the Sea-there was no time, no place you couldn’t pray. Keep him in your care.
Mother Bede had her breviary open as she walked round by the box hedge, coming face to face with Edwina.
‘Whatever? Edwina–’
‘I couldn’t sleep, Mother. I got up early.’
‘You’ve been beyond the garden. Look at your skirt. And your hands and arms. There’s sand –’
‘I’m sorry, Mother.’
Mother Bede looked at her closely. She didn’t speak for a moment. Edwina felt suddenly, too suddenly to halt them, the prick of tears.
‘You know that it’s very wrong to go out of bounds. And for a prefect –’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Mother Bede was gazing at her still. ‘No girl should look so exhausted-Is it trouble of a spiritual nature?’ She snapped shut her breviary: ‘Go as quietly as possible back to the dormitory. I shall arrange with Mother Infirmarian for breakfast in bed.’
‘Whatever have you done to deserve that?’ Fanny said, bursting into the cubicle. They’ve given you honey too…’
Now that she’d left school, Mother allowed her to go over to Franz once a month. There she could stay the night and in the morning have a second lesson. It made sense of that autumn of 1916. Ned had been in France since July. Mother scarcely discussed him, although occasionally a field postcard or an actual letter would arrive. This she would take up to her room. She wrote to him frequently though, saying always: ‘I am about to seal the envelope, any message, Edwina?’ Cora, nearly fourteen now, sharing a governess with a family of girls in the next village, although as objectionable as ever, was in this matter almost Edwina’s ally. ‘She’s hateful about him. They were always going off together, laughing and talking. I had to push so as he’d notice me…’
The Brahms Variations: She had christened them now ‘Ben’s Air’. Calm, tender, changing to fierce, angular, ominous: storms at sea. For a little while lyrical, and then a burst of fragmented sounds. At the end, gentle, warm, relaxed. Peace, war and then peace again. That is how it will be, how it can be, she thought!
She had written to him but had heard only once, through Fanny. It was a letter Fanny could have (would have) read. Then things grew more difficult. Fanny became a land girl and was billeted in the Wolds. Her post lay about at home, collected when she turned up, usually unexpectedly. Difficult too, to keep in touch: at first Fanny wrote regularly but later, during 1917, gradually her letters ceased. (This outdoor work, I’m one great yawn by evening… my hair isn’t bobbed by the way – the only one of us – I want to be able to see it lying all about me when I’m shorn, when I take the veil after the war…’)
Edwina’s hair was not bobbed either. Except that it was worn up now, it was as heavy and difficult as ever. She too was doing some war work, Junior Treasurer of the Red Cross. She wore a smart uniform. Once a week officers from the nearby camp came over for coffee and there would be singing: she played the piano always. Cora, allowed to stay up, flirted and maintained that she was ‘really almost fifteen’. Mother too was over-vivacious; the atmosphere was febrile. To sit quietly with one of the visitors, to look absorbed in conversation, was to bring her over: ‘I hope you’re not boring anyone, Edwina… really you should be passing the biscuits round.’ Father was never there. Sometimes Mother spoke of her lovely hunters: ‘They’re all soldiers now. My beautiful French Garotte the second…
’
That Christmas of 1916 Edwina spent a week in London with Aunt Josephine, staying with some cousins she barely knew. It was her first visit. Most of the time she spent with her aunt. They grew closer. Sensing the warmth of her affection (no one but Edwina to lavish it on, now Mother seemed to need her no longer) Edwina dreamed about confiding in her. Just sufficiently, so that letters – if there were any – could come to her safely. But how ever to broach such a subject, when even Mother’s drinking could not be discussed frankly?
She went to Confession while she was in London. Mother had made no remark so far about her not going to Communion. Nor could she find in herself any sense at all of wrongdoing. But she felt somehow that she must regulate the situation. She couldn’t face the chaplain at Clare’s house, the possible questions, so she went now to Brompton Oratory. A weary-sounding priest, probably only too used to accounts of eve of embarkation passion, absolved her without comment.
Another wartime Christmas. In early February, one bitterly cold Sunday, the oak tree was felled. She came in from the village to find the house in commotion. Father lying in the hall, spread-eagled, breathing heavily-he looked to her massive as he lay there. Aunt Josephine explained that he was not to be moved. The doctor was on his way.
It was a severe stroke. He lived three days but without regaining consciousness. At the funeral in the Norman church up the hill, dry-eyed with shock, Edwina remembered how when she was small she had run between his legs, and been trapped there. She longed now for that pincer movement – gripped, held tight and safe. In bed that night she wept.
Mother was ill for two weeks after. Aunt Josephine said that it was partly the shock and partly ‘her trouble’. ‘She has been through a great deal, Edwina, and she is not well nourished. We are none of us really well fed…’
‘I wish that I could see you,’ Uncle Frederick wrote. ‘It is very difficult here. That two of us should be widowed in a year. I am in Rome for the winter – the youngest Antici-Montani has been wounded in the head but it is not thought to be too grave…’
Men On White Horses Page 22
