‘My mother or my wife?’ asked James quickly.
‘Young Mrs Lovatt, sir. I said you’d gone down to Hampton Court with John Colin, but that I thought you’d be back soon . . .’ Her voice faded with growing embarrassment. ‘I said I’d ask you to telephone her, sir.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Beauchamp,’ he said attempting to sound unconcerned. He dared not ask if she had said he had gone with a friend. ‘I’ll give her a call now. Thank you very much.’
‘Thank you, sir. For taking him out. I couldn’t have stood him pressing his face to the window all day. It’s taken his mind off it a bit.’
She went out. Slowly, stopping himself hurrying, James poured himself a drink and telephoned Millie. ‘I thought you were on duty,’ she said, her voice level. She gave him an excuse. ‘Things were altered, I suppose.’
He was grateful to her. ‘Yes, darling, I’m sorry. What was expected to happen just didn’t. The plans were changed, and I found myself free just after lunch. I came back here intending to telephone you, but this little boy, John Colin, the one I told you about whose mother was in Paris, he was here and very upset because he was expecting his mother to come back and she hadn’t.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Millie answered genuinely. ‘Poor little fellow. Where is she?’
Relieved at the tangent taken by the conversation, he said: ‘God only knows. I’ve tried checking all over the place and all I can discover is she left Paris with the rest of the British Hospital staff on Thursday. Since then, nothing. Mrs Beauchamp is very worried, naturally.’
Millie said: ‘So you took him on an outing.’
‘Just down to the river. There was no time to come home, so I suddenly thought why not? It might give me some practice at being a father.’ He disliked himself for that.
‘You of all people,’ she mused. ‘Well, it was very nice of you, James.’
There was a short silence. ‘When I’m moving about the south a bit this week,’ he said, ‘I’ll get home for one night at least. About Wednesday.’
Millie said: ‘All right, darling. Try and arrange it for Wednesday.’ There was another break. ‘Providing nothing important comes up.’
James swallowed heavily. ‘Short of total war,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there.’
When they had finished, he sat back heavily in the chair. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned. ‘Oh God. Oh bloody dammit.’
Meals in restaurants were limited to five shillings a person, by government decree, but wine could be taken as an extra and at La Marseilles each diner was permitted two glasses. Until the previous week the narrow, candle-lit rendezvous in Kensington had for years been known as Rendezvous Vichy, but this had been hurriedly painted out because of the surrendered French Government’s retreat to Vichy, where from the famous spa it now ruled with a puppet’s ferocity. Few things changed so quickly in war as allegiances.
‘I’m afraid,’ said James, ‘that the least of my talents is telling lies.’
She smiled slightly. ‘You would make a bad spy, James.’
‘The most miserable sort of spy. Even on the telephone I can’t compose myself enough to fabricate a story.’
‘Sometimes,’ she said coolly, ‘wives who know when their husbands are lying understand the reasons.’
He shook his head. ‘Not Millie,’ he said confidently. ‘She has been brought up in a certain way, in one place, where we now live. I have known her since we were children.’
‘I know how small towns can be,’ she agreed. ‘People who trust you are hell.’ She confronted him with composed sadness. ‘You feel like you want to call it off?’
James stared at her. ‘Oh no. No, I didn’t mean that.’ Their hands met on the table. ‘I couldn’t now . . . I’ve never known . . . anyone like you . . . anything like this.’ He knew what he was saying. ‘We’ve only just started.’
‘You’re going to have to take to lying,’ she told him simply. ‘That’s all that’s left.’
As if a warning, a spectre, had appeared, James saw someone watching him. Thin as a wagging finger a man emerged from the folds of the Free French flags which engulfed the distant end of the candle-lit place. Philip Benson saw James at almost the same moment and smiled in the uncertain light. James, a piece of Crêpe de Gaulle see-sawing on his fork, whispered, ‘Oh, bugger.’
Joanne’s eyes widened. Benson was almost at the table and he had no option but to continue even though he had seen the girl’s slight form and short hair from the back. ‘Hello, James,’ he said genially. ‘Taking a breather?’ He turned towards Joanne and smiled charmingly.
James took his time to put down his fork; the crêpe slid off it. He could feel the embarrassment burning his face. ‘Oh, Phil,’ he said, as if it were something which had just come to mind. ‘Fancy seeing you. You must meet a friend of mine . . .’
‘Yes, I must,’ said Benson mischievously.
‘Joanne Schorner,’ faltered James. ‘She is American. A writer.’
‘I like to be called a journalist,’ said Joanne. She and Benson shook hands.
‘We’ve met before, I feel,’ said Benson basking in the younger man’s discomfiture.
‘Philip is a Member of Parliament,’ explained James standing unhappily. ‘He’s a friend of my father’s . . .’
‘Your family,’ corrected Benson. ‘I’ve known you all for years.’
Unruffled, Joanne said: ‘We’ve probably met in the House of Commons, Mr Benson. I get there quite often. There’s a lot happening there these days.’
‘Yes, there seems to be,’ agreed Benson. ‘On and off.’ He glanced at James.
‘Do sit down,’ invited James unconvincingly. ‘We were just going to order coffee.’
‘How kind,’ breathed Benson. ‘I don’t really want to spoil your . . . evening.’ He sat down with some finality. ‘As a matter of fact, Pascal, the chap who runs this place, has got some brandy. I know that for a fact. Perhaps we can persuade him to part with a little.’
Joanne rose without hurry. ‘I need to make a phone call,’ she said. ‘I’m going off to East Anglia, wherever that may be, tomorrow, and I promised to check on the details. I’ll just be five minutes.’
‘That,’ said Benson when she had gone, ‘was what is known as a diplomatic exit.’ He regarded James expansively: ‘She’s a beautiful girl, James.’
‘Oh come off it, Philip,’ flustered James. ‘She’s just an acquaintance. I get pretty solitary up here and it happened . . .’
Benson held up a mild hand. ‘James, I have not said a word. Nor, of course, shall I.’
A half relief came to James’s expression. ‘Thanks . . . No, well, it’s all perfectly . . .’
‘Innocent? Well, of course it is. There aren’t many innocent things left in this world, my boy. Having dinner with an attractive acquaintance is one that is. Up to now.’ He leaned forward. ‘On the other hand, my motives are not so innocent. I’d really like to stay a few minutes, if you don’t mind terribly. I’m certain Pascal has that brandy. Do you think Miss Schorner drinks brandy? I’m not sure I could get three.’
‘I doubt it,’ said James, now more assured. ‘What are you up to?’
Joanne returned and settled for coffee. ‘East Anglia, here I come,’ she said, raising the cup.
‘America,’ mentioned Benson, as if it followed logically, ‘has been asked by Churchill to send us some of your obsolete warships. We have only sixty or so destroyers now operative.’ He glanced up at her. ‘I gather that some of your naval people are not being very cooperative about the suggestion. They think we’re finished and they’re telling President Roosevelt so.’ He picked up a knife and slid it across the tablecloth like a warship travelling at speed. ‘We need those ships,’ he said simply. ‘They must let us have them.’
To James’s astonishment Joanne asked firmly in return: ‘What about the French Navy? What’s going to happen to that?’
‘I’m glad you asked,’ answered Benson, eyeing her appreciatively. ‘Your c
ountry, young lady, must use every influence it has to see that the French fleet sails to neutral, or better still, American ports. It cannot be difficult for Americans to realize that there is a threat to their own safety if the Germans get their hands on these warships. America can only be reached by sea.’
Benson rose to leave, shaking hands with Joanne and saying to James: ‘My love to everyone . . . all the family. See you soon.’ He turned and went towards the door. James half turned to wave briefly. Benson raised his fingers in a Churchill salute.
‘It worked, see,’ he called back softly.
A crouching London taxi wandered along the furtive darkness of the street, its wheels turning gratefully towards them as James hailed it, as if it had been lost and was now found.
In the back of the cab, without lights either within or outside, was like being in a burrow. Joanne felt for his hand and placed it tenderly on her breast, holding it there. They kissed while the taxi driver was seized with a fit of coughing which he finally dispelled with an audible gob from his window.
‘James,’ she said, her mouth moving against his lapel. ‘Maybe you ought to go home later. In case your wife rings.’
‘Yes,’ he said unhappily. ‘I think it would be wise. In the circumstances.’
‘There should be a saying – when a wife calls once she’ll call again.’ She said it lightly. He said no more.
The taxi rumbled through streets as dark as trenches. ‘Your friend, Mr Benson,’ she continued, still casually. ‘He’s in the propaganda business, I take it.’
‘He has something to do with that,’ James admitted. Even though they were now lovers he found himself being cautious and was embarrassed by it.
She laughed at his worry. ‘I received the message loud and clear,’ she said. ‘And what was all that funny business at the door when he went out. Was he just clowning? Doing that V-sign like Winston Churchill does?’
‘Philip has a sort of public-school sense of humour,’ said James hurriedly.
‘All right, smarty,’ she said without rancour. ‘I’m not digging for secrets.’
He kissed her again. Her cheek was soft to his nose. The driver braked and they heard him curse the black-out.
James asked her: ‘Now Italy is in the war what do you think those Italian-Americans will do if the States comes in? Will they fight against their own?’
‘Sure they will,’ she nodded against his neck. ‘Those Italians are Americans. The lady you have your arms about at this moment has a second language and it’s German. Three generations ago we came from Deutschland.’
‘Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Maybe Jesus didn’t either.’ She pulled away in the darkness and looked at the dim shape of his face. ‘Listen, this war isn’t going to be won just by people called Lovatt or Benson, or even Churchill or Eden, high class as they sound. In the end it’s going to be won by people called Polonie or Di Mario or Hoffmeister or Furt, and who knows, people called Omsk and Tomsk too.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But just at this moment the war is ours, all ours. Just us and them.’
‘Exclusive, British,’ she laughed. ‘Well, try not to keep it that way.’
The taxi left them in the vacant street. It was a dank night now, with gathering rain clouds outlined by the moon drifting aimlessly. They went up to her apartment. ‘I don’t want to talk any more about the war, okay?’ she said. He was looking at the evening paper and she had brought him a whisky. They embraced, he with the newspaper still in his hands. ‘Will you quit reading the news,’ she asked softly. It’s all bad.’
James dropped the journal on to a chair behind her. ‘I was merely thinking that even official announcements have their own poetry,’ he said. ‘See.’ He picked up the paper again. ‘We don’t have weather forecasts any longer, only, as it says there “the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon”.’
‘It sounds like “Hiawatha”,’ she commented bluntly. She began to undo his tie and shirt. ‘I’m sorry your wife rang,’ she said, closing her eyes and laying her warm forehead on his neck. ‘But I really don’t care about her, James. I can’t afford to care about her. There’s no time.’ She kissed his face. ‘This sort of thing, you understand, is not for ever.’
Seventeen
THE HANDSOME WEATHER spread into the early days of July, the farms and gardens blooming under the sun. Elizabeth, in a light dress and straw hat, walking through the village with Wadsworth, admired the roses on Josh Millington’s wall, long enough for the old man’s head to appear among the pink and the white. ‘’S all right, Mrs Lovatt, I ain’t no German parachutist,’ he grinned gummily after she had started back. ‘I was just down below ’ere ’aving a liddle look for that blight, or they darned flies.’
She smiled fondly. She had known him since she was first at school. His deep-roofed English cottage was called ‘Babylon’, after, as he was pleased to explain to the mystified, the fine willow over the beehives at the back, Salix Babylonia, ‘Called by they Children of Israel, like in the Bible,’ he said. ‘When they was weeping, and ’anging their ’arps.’ Elizabeth could scarcely ever remember seeing him outside his wall, except at the autumn horticultural shows. He made a point, vocally and seasonally proclaimed through the village, that he never entered the spring or the early summer shows because he was needed every moment in his garden. He believed that some disaster might strike his blooms and crops – or his beloved bees – in a moment of unguarded absence. A local joke had it that he even slept among his vegetables. Peter Dove had said, on the stage at the last village Christmas concert, that Mr Millington was found frozen to the marrow.
To the gentle countrywoman it seemed strange, yet satisfying in its way, that they could be conversing on this summer morning with danger looming, and yet so remote that it was lingering only at the back of her mind. ‘I always plants out the pumpkins at the full moon, Mrs Lovatt,’ he told her secretly. ‘That way they grows to be like the moon hisself – big and round and a ripe colour.’ He became thoughtful. ‘They just coming right now. Lovely they are.’ Through the fretwork of roses he studied her profoundly, as if summing up her whole character. ‘I’ll show you they, if you like,’ he suddenly decided. ‘I ain’t showed no solitary soul, not yet this year. But I’ll show you.’
It was an honour and Elizabeth recognized it. ‘Thank you, Mr Millington,’ she said, touching her throat. ‘I’d love to.’ She nodded downwards to where Wadsworth was sniffing like a vacuum cleaner. ‘I’ve got the dog, I’m afraid.’ The old man disappeared from among the thorns and blossoms and bobbed up beaming at his gate. He had shining stubble on his chin, like an elderly hedgehog. Opening the wooden gate – with its word ‘Babylon’ – with some ceremony he said: ‘Dog won’t hurt the pumpkins. I’ll ask Mrs Millington to get you a cup of tea, if you like. She’s washing the curtains and gettin’ the house cleaned up in case that invasion comes along this week.’
Elizabeth blinked at the logic, but did not question it. ‘No, no, thank you Mr Millington. Not if she’s busy,’ she said with hurried awkwardness. ‘I’ll just see the pumpkins and then I must be on my way.’ His face screwed up like paper as he smiled. He beckoned her towards the greenhouse. Walking through the garden was like travelling through a country market, fruit and food and flowers on all sides. His glistening greenhouse stood under the morning sun. She ducked into the fetid interior. It was even more astonishing in there. Every inch was used; vegetables bright and swollen, tomatoes hanging tropically, cucumbers thick and green as serpents.
‘There,’ said Mr Millington with soft pride. ‘There they be. Don’ they look a picture?’
The pumpkins lolled fat and somnolent, like a family of overfed orientals. Elizabeth admired them diplomatically. ‘If they Germans do come,’ said the old man, his bristles working with emotion, ‘I’m going to blow the lot up. They ain’t getting they.’
Mrs Millington came from the red cottage as they returned and Elizabeth again refused a cup of
tea. The old lady, bent as a crooked hairpin, was painfully hanging out her washed flowered curtains on the garden line. Wadsworth investigated her thick-stockinged ankles and she absent-mindedly lashed back at him with her heel. He moved away suspiciously. ‘You never know, do you, Mrs Lovatt?’ she said mysteriously. ‘You just never know.’
‘I wish God ’ud sent us a drop of rain,’ said Josh Millington as they reached the gate and Elizabeth wished him and his garden well. ‘Droughtiest summer for years, you know. ‘Tis all very well the sun, but you need the water too. I reckon that ’itler will get here afore the rain.’
As she continued her way through the village Elizabeth thought that this, of all summers she could ever recall, was indeed the most profuse. It was almost as if the brightness and the fruitfulness were some sort of local consolation for a world of death and ugliness.
The war had, it seemed, come to a temporary halt. The German guns were rimming the Channel coast, their soldiers waiting, as our soldiers waited for them. There were times when enemy planes appeared, like flights of grey pigeons, but they overflew, leaving Binford and its neighbourhood untouched.
The parish council had decided that, in view of the apparent lack of emergency, the customary summer dance would take place at the village pavilion, and Elizabeth, as she had done for several years, was making her way there to supervise the bunting and the bandstand. She did some shopping on her route for it was the day she collected her rations. Hob Hobson had the basket already packed for her. He eyed Wadsworth carefully while he handed it over; little packets of butter and cooking fat, a small wedge of cheese, a quarter of a pound of tea. He clipped the coupons from her two ration books, one for her, one for Robert, and she wondered, not for the first time, how they had managed to eat so much before the war.
When she asked Hob for the key to the pavilion, he said: ‘Already open, Mrs Lovatt. The LDV are over there. They just got some uniforms. I expect the major’s there too.’
Elizabeth left the shop and took the lane to the cricket field and the pavilion. Wadsworth, off the lead, loped over the grass. She walked thoughtfully; would uniforms make soldiers of the nondescript band who had pledged themselves under her husband’s warrior tendencies to defend this, their corner, against a steel army? The dread in her heart was not the coming of the enemy but what would happen to the hopeless defenders of Binford. She pictured Josh Millington blowing up his pumpkins.
The Dearest and the Best Page 31
