‘I’ve just heard from a friend in America – they think the convoy’s turning back. They think Khrushchev might be climbing down. No one can believe it, but they think the Russian ships are turning back.’ His voice sounded so excited and boyish that Lionel was quite tempted to go straight back round to Cucklington House again, but he was stopped by the sight of his old spaniel waiting to be taken out.
‘If only it was true, eh?’ he told the old dog. ‘What we two old boys wouldn’t give for it to be true, eh?’
After which he walked into the garden, ending the evening staring up at the night sky, hoping, wishing with all his being, that it might be.
As it turned out it was true. At the eleventh hour the Russians had a change of heart. Kennedy never dropped his eyes and so finally Khrushchev took his finger off the button.
And the world breathed again.
Max sat halfway down the bed, the sheet pulled up over his knees, smoking a cigarette and watching the television he had pulled into view in the corner of the bedroom. They were running a special news bulletin on the Cuba crisis, and as far as he could gather there was now no doubt in anyone’s mind that the heat was off.
‘For the time being,’ Max muttered, squashing his smoke out in the top of an old coffee jar.
‘What’s up?’ a sleepy cockney voice said from the other side of the bed. ‘We all still ’ere, then?’
‘It would appear so.’ Max stretched his arms above his head. ‘Dear old Nikita turned his boats back at the last throw of the dice.’
‘Wasn’t that close, surely?’ Maisie wondered, now making a somewhat dishevelled appearance from under the bedclothes. ‘Come on, he was only bluffing, surely?’
Two worried, mascara-smudged eyes blinked at Max. To reassure her Max leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek, wondering as he did whether he would have found himself waking up in her bed if the world hadn’t been teetering on the verge of extinction the night before and deciding that the answer would definitely be in the negative.
‘Coffee?’ Max slid out from between the sheets, pulling the counterpane off the bed for cover.
‘No, thanks – champagne.’
Max turned and raised one lazy eyebrow at her.
‘I put it in the fridge last night, love. Time to celebrate, innit? No need for Joe to sleep in the basement with his bottle of Jack Daniel’s, audiences are going to laugh again without us having to put a stick of dynamite up ’em, and best of all – no need for you to take me to bed in case it’s your very last chance to make love, ever. Now if that’s not a reason to celebrate with a bottle of shampoo, what is?’
Maisie squinted up at Max from the sea of pillows upon which she had draped herself, and they both laughed.
‘Don’t you take anything seriously, mate?’
‘Nah.’ Maisie rolled over on to her front. ‘Would I be an actress if I did?’
Max hooted with laughter, and went to fetch Maisie’s champagne, and two glasses, and what with one thing and another their breakfast turned into quite a celebration.
The mood was considerably more sombre round the lunch table at John and Mattie Tate’s house overlooking the estuary at Bexham, John, like his younger brother Walter, still being obsessed with the idea that Max and his fellow thespians in the cast of the musical revue had deliberately set themselves up to destroy everything that his stepfather held dear.
‘Is nothing sacred? Everything decent that we fought for, everything – they made fun of in skit after skit. I simply don’t understand it, really I don’t. Nothing positive, nothing constructive, they’ve just set about tearing down the world we fought to save, and what have they put in its place? Nothing, absolutely nothing.’
Lionel, who was doing his best to enjoy Mattie’s cooking, sighed inwardly at his son-in-law’s statement, while keeping his eyes fixed steadily on his plate.
One of the great problems of getting older was having to sit on your tongue in front of younger people. When he remembered how irreverent John and Mattie’s generation had been during the war – the jokes, the wild behaviour – it was ludicrous to pull a face because Max’s generation were having a bit of a go at their elders and far-from-betters.
‘Point is, John,’ Lionel said after allowing a few seconds to pass. ‘Point is, that’s what we fought the war for, at least that was how I’ve always understood it.’
His son-in-law stared at him and the words ‘Et tu Brute?’ came into Lionel’s mind as he did so. Nevertheless Lionel persisted with his thought. He had to; to do otherwise would be to fail in his duty to the young.
‘We fought the war, both world wars, precisely so that young people like Max could grow up in a world where they could have a bit of a go. Imagine a world where you could be arrested for making a joke, or putting a skit on the stage, or daring to disagree with some politico. I mean, that’s what winning the war was all about, I should have thought. It was all about freedom of speech, and doing skits about your elders’ obsessions. Surely that’s why we had to flatten the Nazis, so that our young people could do that, grow up with that kind of freedom? I understand that no Nazi was ever found to have a sense of humour, and still can’t be, and that is for certain.’
‘I think Daddy’s got a point, John.’ Mattie picked the plum crumble out of the serving hatch where her Spanish au pair had placed it and put it on the sideboard.
‘It’s all so destructive,’ John moaned, not taking any notice of either of them, wallowing in self-pity for his generation obviously being the order of the day. ‘Anyway, it’s not just me who found it far too much. I understand Walter had a fit, apparently.’
‘Apparently, as I understand it, it doesn’t take much to give your darling brother Walter a fit nowadays, John.’ Mattie bossed her eyes comically behind John’s back to make her father laugh, at which Lionel immediately dropped his own, afraid of laughing at her in front of John.
Although he didn’t see Mattie perhaps John felt what his wife was doing, because he suddenly stood up abruptly, and putting his napkin in the middle of his pudding plate prepared to leave the room.
‘No pudding for me, thank you, Mattie. See you at the pub tonight, Lionel. There’s going to be a helluva darts game on – Bexham versus Littleton. We need you to cheer us on, and that’s an order.’
He smiled sadly round at them both before leaving the dining room to Mattie and Lionel, who, if the truth were known, were more than thankful that they could finish their lunch without him.
‘Don’t take any notice of him, Daddy.’ Mattie sighed. ‘He’s in one of his older-man-respectable-person moods. I keep waiting for him to start everything he says with “young people nowadays”. Honestly, what happens to us when we get older? We all get so pompous, forget all about the wild and woolly things that we used to be.’
‘Yes, I agree, we do get pompous.’ Lionel nodded, relishing his plum crumble, wiping his moustache appreciatively between mouthfuls. ‘War or no war, you were all quite as dotty as Max and his lot. It’s just that John’s quite blanked out all the fun you had – despite the war – just blanked it out of his memory. He only remembers the sacrifices, the pain, and I understand that, but he must also remember what it was all for. Freedom of speech, freedom and democracy, so that young men like Max can act up a bit, and pull everyone’s legs about war films and so on.’
Mattie smiled. ‘Yes, we were all a bit mad, weren’t we? Jitterbugging and heaven only knows what, despite everything. But I’m not a Tate, Daddy, I’m an Eastcott. John’s a Tate, and the Tates were all born a tiny bit on the stuffy side, bless them. I’m dreadfully afraid Max takes after me, poor love.’
* * *
The following morning Jenny stared into the large, old-fashioned bath. Mattie had not only thoughtfully removed the spider from it, placing it outside the window, but she had also drawn the water for Jenny, as was her careful maternal custom – all six inches of it.
Not only that but she had laid out Jenny’s towel for her, a much-
mended affair with a great deal of tape stitched round the edges, which Jenny now held up in front of her. Crikey! It must be about nine hundred years old. She climbed into the few inches of water thinking that even at boarding school they were allowed deeper baths. Downstairs she knew her parents were still talking about Max Eastcott and the satirical revue. Sholto and she had adored it, but their dad had hated it.
All the way home in the car after the show her father’d gone on and on about knocking the values for which people had fought and died in the war, until a really fed-up Sholto had slid down his seat and, well out of sight of their parents, blocked his ears.
‘I don’t care what they say, I liked it,’ he’d hissed at Jenny when they parted at their bedroom doors late that night.
Jenny stared at the old chrome bath taps with their black Victorian writing remembering Sholto’s suppressed indignation. She’d felt exactly the same as Sholt. After all, Max’s show was meant to make people laugh. And it had made all of them laugh, all the young from Bexham, even Flavia Sykes who was never really interested in anything except how she looked, even Flave had killed herself laughing at some of the sketches.
‘They’ve talked more about it – more even than Cuba – do you know that?’ Jenny told Kim when they met on the village green the following lunchtime. ‘I mean the world’s about to end and all they seem to be worried about is Max’s sketch about war films. Honestly.’
‘Who?’ Kim was too busy staring across at Tam Sykes to pay much attention to Jenny.
‘My parents. They just haven’t stopped going on about Max’s revue letting down the side, knocking the war, and all that.’
Kim quickly turned and looked at Jenny with utter, concentrated fascination.
‘I know, mine were the same,’ she said, flicking back her dark hair and giving Jenny a deeply sympathetic look. ‘They all think Max has let the side down, which is just plum stupid. Why shouldn’t he make fun of the war in his show? It’s been over long enough, although you really wouldn’t think so the way they all go on about it still. And I mean my parents . . .’ She sighed. ‘They still toast bread with mildew on it, and water down the milk. I keep trying to tell them – the war is over! You should have seen my bath water this morning.’ She held up her hand, and narrowed two of her fingers. ‘Half an inch. Hardly covered my big toe.’
‘Really? Mine was just the same. It’s pathetic, really. I mean, how long since the war stopped, seventeen years? Really, you’d think they would have put it behind them by now, wouldn’t you?’ Jenny was pleased. It wasn’t like Kim to even listen to anything she said, let alone carry on an intelligent conversation with her. She soon saw the reason for the change, though, when Tam Sykes, dressed in a black and green striped shirt with brass buttons, his hair flicked back in the newest American style, arrived at Kim’s elbow.
‘Want to come for a spin?’ he asked Kim.
Kim tossed her hair back. ‘Dunno, really. Don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not, Tam,’ Jenny put in, frowning. Frowning at Tam Sykes was actually a hobby of hers, he was just such a goer, thought far too much of himself, in her opinion.
‘No, I don’t.’ Tam assumed an innocent expression.
‘Because you haven’t passed your test, Tam Sykes, and you shouldn’t be driving on your own until you do, you know that.’
‘It’s not against the law.’
‘The way you drive, it should be against the law.’ Jenny hooked her long, blond hair back behind her ears, and swung her legs in front of her, kicking the back of the wall they were sitting on as she did so.
‘My parents let me drive where I want on my own, it’s all right in fields and things, it’s not against the law, Jenny Tate.’
‘Just because your parents let you, doesn’t mean ours would.’
Jenny stood up, but Kim didn’t. Instead she turned and looked at Tam.
‘OK. I’ll come,’ she said, with yet another toss of her dark hair. She turned to Jenny. ‘You can tell my parents that I’ve gone for a walk, sketching or something, if you don’t want to come.’
‘No, I don’t want to come.’
‘Well then – stay behind.’ She walked a few paces and then turned and said softly, ‘Chicken.’
‘I’m not chicken, I just think it’s wrong.’
Kim was following Tam across the green. Reluctantly Jenny found herself following them both. She didn’t know why but she always felt responsible for Kim. OK, they were only cousins, but being brought up in Bexham and being so close in age, they were more like sisters, really.
As she trailed slowly and reluctantly after the other two, Jenny found herself wishing that half term was over, that she was back at school with her books and her music, most of all that her reckless cousin Kim was someone else’s blasted responsibility.
Kim turned and grinned down at Jenny as she climbed over the stile into the field towards which Tam and she had been heading.
‘I say, we’ll be able to boast about this when we get back to school, won’t we?’
Jenny’s eyes drifted past Kim’s mischievous face towards what lay in the field beyond them. It might be old, but she knew just from looking at it that it must be fast. It was a two-seater sports special with bright red painted mudguards, and it was waiting for them on a dirt track cut in the field.
‘You can’t go in that, Kim, not with Tam Sykes, Kim, you can’t, really. It looks as if it’s been put together with cardboard and string. You can’t go in it, your mum would have a fit, really she would. Aunt Judy would have a complete fit.’
‘Why ever not?’ Kim protested, but she eyed the little car nervously.
‘Anyway, Tam probably doesn’t even know how to drive it.’ Jenny caught at Kim’s arm, but Kim shook her off.
‘Course I know how to drive it!’ Tam protested crossly, overhearing her. ‘Why do you think it’s here? Not just to look at, you bet. Besides, I’m going to be a racing driver. My dad’s going to be my manager, I’m going to be as big as Stirling Moss. I’m going to be the best.’ He looked proudly from one face to the other. Jenny frowned.
‘Where did you get it, Tam?’
‘I didn’t get it. I’ve borrowed it. My old man bought this field, see.’ Tam looked proudly round the large grassy area. ‘My dad’s making a track round here for me to practise, see?’ He pointed out the beginnings of the track around the field. ‘He’s building a couple of dirt trackers at the moment. Now they’re really hairy.’
‘So what’s this?’ Jenny demanded. ‘It’s not exactly built for weddings and funerals, Tam Sykes.’
‘It’s for hill climbs really. We’re going to use it for speed tests and hill climbs.’
‘It looks pretty fragile, and it’s so low on the ground. Are you sure it’s all right to go in?’ Kim stepped back. ‘I don’t think I fancy going in that, actually, Tam, not one bit. It’s not like a normal car.’
‘Course it is! It goes fifty, I swear.’
‘Fifty in that thing?’ Kim backed right off down the field. ‘You can keep your speeding tea tray, Tam Sykes, thanks all the same.’
‘Now who’s chicken?’ Tam called after her. ‘Tell you what, just to show you how safe it is, I’ll take Jenny in it.’
‘Oh no you won’t,’ Jenny protested, and she too backed off down the field. ‘I’m not going in that thing. Not with you driving.’
‘Well you drive it, then.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I promise I won’t go over forty.’
‘Thirty.’
‘Thirty-five. Any slower and we’ll be pushing it ourselves,’ Tam protested, obviously in his element. ‘It’s OK, really it is. It’s private land, I can drive here. Dad wouldn’t let me otherwise, really.’
Jenny looked from Kim to the car and then back again to Tam, trying not to show her anxiety.
‘Promise me you won’t go over thirty, Tam?’
‘I promise. I just want to show Kim how well
the little car goes, that’s all.’
Tam’s eyes were dancing with mischief. He longed, as always, for Kim’s admiration, longed for her to see him as a bit of a hero, a bit of a lad, not just old Tam Sykes, the garage owner’s son, no one much, not as smart as Kim, not as classy.
‘OK, so long as you don’t go over thirty.’
Jenny didn’t want to get in one bit, but she wanted to show Kim that she truly wasn’t chicken. Out of the two Tate cousins Kim had always been a bit of a daredevil, Jenny the more gentle and bookish one.
‘OK. Hop in.’ Tam opened the car door, and Jenny climbed in feeling sick to her stomach, grabbing hold of the side door with one hand and under the seat with the other.
‘Wagons roll!’ Tam shouted as he engaged gear, and he waved back at Kim.
Jenny too turned back and waved, letting go of the seat for a second before grabbing it again. Seconds later Tam accelerated away, but not at thirty, not at thirty-five, but at forty-five, nearing fifty. Jenny had embarked on the shortest of journeys, but it was one that would change her life for ever.
Loopy was enjoying Hugh playing ‘Blue Room’ to her, so much so that she hardly heard Waldo coming into the sitting room.
‘Isn’t that the best?’
Waldo had managed to slip in unannounced by Gwen, who nowadays always seemed to be too busy watching a quiz show on television to hear the front doorbell.
‘Oh, Waldo, darling. You let yourself in. Good man. I’m so glad.’ Loopy kissed Waldo affectionately on both cheeks and stood back from him, still holding his hands tightly, while Hugh called greetings from the piano.
‘Have you heard the news?’ she went on, shaking both their hands up and down to emphasise her excitement. ‘The convoys are on their way home and the Russians are dismantling the sites!’
The Moon At Midnight Page 5
