He had told her the story now. He said: ‘I couldn’t believe it was happening. I’ve been stuck in a damned room all day, waiting for the so-called debriefing, and every time I’ve even dozed off it’s given me nightmares . . . René, someone who was my friend a couple of months ago, and they had to go and kill him. It’s just all so . . . so . . . bloody.’ He had a Scotch now. He finished the tumbler.
Millie asked quietly: ‘Did you hear the news tonight?’
‘No, nothing. What’s happened now?’
‘It said that we’ve destroyed the rest of the French fleet. Somewhere in the Mediterranean. In port.’
‘Jesus Christ, what next?’ His voice was like dust.
‘Goodness knows what next,’ she sighed. ‘They said that casualties were kept to a minimum and they had given the French time to surrender.’
He looked up at her. Her head was inclined a little, as though staring into the fireless grate. ‘I must be off to bed,’ she said rising.
‘And I must get home. I’m sorry I woke you.’
‘I was awake,’ she answered. ‘I have a lot on my mind just now.’
‘James?’
‘Yes, James.’
‘I’m sorry. I haven’t liked to ask.’
‘It’s all right. Neither have your parents. I’m sure your mother has noticed even if Robert hasn’t.’ She stood, the velvet dressing-gown folding into pleats about her. He picked up his cap and began to button his tunic.
‘You know that boy Cubbins,’ said Harry. ‘The boy with the spots.’
She nodded, surprised.
‘He was walking along the road just now. He wanders about at night because he thinks it stops him sleep-walking.’
‘John Lampard told me,’ she said.
‘He said that when he came here with the rest of the kids from London he and a girl made out they were brother and sister. They altered her label.’
She smiled faintly. ‘I heard about it,’ she said. ‘Nobody realized until the girl’s mother eventually turned up to visit her. Then there was hell to pay.’
‘What a strange thing to do,’ he said. They began to move towards the kitchen door.
‘There was no harm,’ said Millie. ‘They were only children.’
She paused and added quietly, ‘They simply needed somebody.’
They had almost reached the door. Millie said: ‘You could sleep on the sofa, if you want to, Harry. It’s a pity to make you walk up there at this time of the night. When are you due back to Portsmouth?’
‘I’ll have to report tomorrow. This is slightly unofficial.’
‘French leave,’ she said.
He laughed drily. ‘French leave.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Do you want to stay?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
She brought two blankets and a pillow into the room, kissed him good night on the cheek, and left him. He stripped to his shirt and lay between the blankets on the old horsehair sofa. For some time he did not sleep but lay looking at the room of shadows about him. Then his eyes closed and he drifted to sleep. He awoke after only a few minutes with his sister-in-law standing by him, her face a white disc, the ends of her fingers upon his nose.
They went slowly into the bedroom and they together climbed beneath the eiderdown and fell against each other. They lay hugging in the dark, arms and legs enfolding, before even they kissed, and when they kissed it was not from passion but from need and friendship. Her mouth was open against his neck, her eyes clenched.
‘Pull your hair down, please, Millie,’ he whispered. ‘Like it always was.’
Without word or hurry she took the combs out in a few swift plucks and her long beautiful hair slid down her face and on to her full shoulders. He took a handful and buried his face in its luxury. Their bodies enfolded, they moved against each other. Millie pulled the shoulders of her nightdress away. His hands and then his mouth went to her deep breasts and she was still and silent, before her head lolled against him again and she kissed his hair.
‘I’m so lonely,’ she said. ‘I’m so bloody . . . bereft.’
‘I am too,’ he said. ‘There never seems to be anyone when you need them, does there?’
Sister and brother-in-law made love in the dim room. Then they lay against each other in the dimness. She was weeping softly and he said she must not.
‘It’s the war,’ he said. ‘It’s all because of the war.’
On the same July night that action was taken against the ships of France in the ports of Britain, the French fleet in harbours at Oran and Mers-El-Kebir, Algeria, was bombarded and virtually destroyed by a British naval force. The great battleships Bretagne, Provence and Dunquerque were sunk or disabled and many submarines, destroyers and other vessels were also destroyed. More than twelve hundred sailors, the allies of only weeks before, died, nine hundred of them in one ship, the Provence, which capsized under the gunfire of the British.
‘Mr Churchill,’ said James, ‘was in tears. He came from the cabinet room with tears running down his cheeks. But he was cheered in the Commons. The Americans believed it was a courageous thing to do, that we had won a great naval engagement.’
Harry, sitting opposite his brother on the lawn, the family arranged in deck chairs, choked over his tea cup. He regarded James angrily. ‘It was bloody murder,’ he muttered, wiping his mouth with his hand. ‘Sheer, inexcusable, bloody murder.’
Their mother, their father and Millie reacted sharply. The brothers fixed each other over the tops of their tea cups. ‘Would you repeat that?’ asked James. Each word fell like a drop of cold water.
‘I think you heard,’ said Harry, putting his cup and saucer on the grass. It was another fine blue day, the trees fanning over the garden, the flowers thick in the herbaceous beds and the shining roses on the sunny wall. ‘I said it was murder.’
‘Who would like some more tea?’ suggested Elizabeth as if she had heard nothing. Millie had gone pink. Robert regarded his two sons with apprehensive amusement.
James recited: ‘It was a courageous and entirely necessary operation.’
‘From where I was,’ responded Harry, ‘and I was a bit closer than you, it was a lousy, cowardly business. It made me feel dirty – and take it from me, major, I wasn’t the only one. Great naval victory! Balls!’
Elizabeth stood shocked. ‘I think we ought not to shout so in the garden,’ she said firmly. ‘The village will think we’re quarrelling.’
‘I think we are,’ commented James looking briefly towards her. He turned on his brother again. ‘So you saw a man shot. So what? Men do get shot in wartime. Lots of men.’
Harry rose from the deck chair. The brothers, in their different uniforms, remained facing each other. ‘I saw a friend shot,’ he said. ‘Mr Bloody Churchill needed to cry, I can tell you. And, from what I hear, his tears won’t cover all the other poor bastards who died.’
‘So,’ grunted James, ‘you would prefer it if those French ships were running along the English Channel bombarding your friends in Portsmouth?’ He paused. ‘Or even your friends in this village.’
Harry said: ‘Just tell our wonderful bloody Prime Minister, if you’ve got the guts . . .’
James shifted towards him. ‘I’ve never been short of guts, Harry.’
Millie stepped forward. ‘James,’ she pleaded.
‘Be quiet, Millie,’ snapped her husband.
‘That’s right,’ sneered Harry. ‘Obey the major’s orders, Millie.’
At that moment Robert stood up and ponderously moved between the two young men. They were only two yards apart, their eyes full of dislike. Their father, tall and rounded, reached his arms out both ways and gave each one a brief sharp push. It took both by surprise and sent them staggering back. James fell ignominiously over his own deck chair, his khaki legs, socks and brown shoes pointing upwards, and Harry trampled on his cup and saucer, breaking them.
‘Be quiet, both of you,’ ordered Robert. ‘You’re spoiling y
our mother’s tea.’
‘Ah, it is teatime,’ sounded a voice from the gate. The tense little group looked up alarmed and saw the head of Johanes Van Lorn projecting over the top. He pulled back the bolt of the gate with the emphasis of a field gunner and entered the garden urbanely.
‘Would you like some tea, Mr Van Lorn?’ asked the relieved Elizabeth, as if there might be some doubt. Millie, smiling now, turned and without a word went to replenish the teapot. Elizabeth turned formally. ‘I don’t know whether you have met everyone. You know my husband, of course.’
Robert gave a heavy, almost Germanic bow. ‘Ah, yes. He is the resistance leader,’ enthused Mr Van Lorn. He turned to the still glowering brothers. ‘And these are your sons. Fighting men.’
‘Er . . . yes,’ put in Robert carefully.
‘Have some cake – please,’ suggested Elizabeth, still blessing his intrusion. James and Harry had sunk back sullenly into their chairs.
Harry was about to pick up the final piece of cake from the plate when his mother made her invitation. He withdrew his hand. The Dutchman took the piece and began to eat it, but then abruptly looked concerned. ‘Oh, but I have taken the cake,’ he said sadly.
‘You certainly do,’ muttered Robert towards the grinning Elizabeth. Millie returned with the teapot and cups were replenished after a large cup had been filled for Mr Van Lorn.
‘Have you any news of your family?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘They are safe, I hear,’ the Dutchman said. ‘But we will not meet until the war is over now. I will be here and they are there.’
There came a further noise from the garden gate and they saw that a breathless Mrs Spofforth had arrived and was waving over the top.
‘There he is, the old swine!’ she exclaimed loudly. ‘Scoffing everybody’s rations.’ She flung back the bolt and strode into the garden, her white legs stiff as stilts. ‘Got you, Van Lorn!’ she bawled accusingly. ‘Caught in the act.’
‘Cake,’ confirmed the Dutchman. ‘It is very good. Everyone is so kind to me.’
‘Would you like some tea, Mrs Spofforth?’ asked Elizabeth, still appreciative of the diversion. James was making exit eyes at his wife. ‘I’m afraid we have no more cake.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Bess’s grandmother.
‘Please sit down, Mrs Spofforth,’ requested Elizabeth.
James stood and said: ‘Please take my seat.’ He glanced at Millie. ‘We’ll need to be going soon. I have to get back to London.’
Mrs Spofforth sat down ceremoniously. ‘Give our regards to Mr Churchill,’ she said. She noted his alarm. ‘Don’t worry, everybody knows you work for him. Tell him I hope he knows what he’s doing. And tell him to watch one or two of his friends, slippery swine. They’d sell us down the river to Hitler, given half a chance.’
‘Your granddaughter won herself some eminence,’ pointed out James obliquely. ‘Capturing a German pilot.’
‘Trust her,’ sniffed the old lady. She emitted a growl. ‘Have you seen her since, going round on that horse? Like Joan of blinking Arc. I swear the horse has its nose in the air as well.’
James said amid the eased smiles, ‘We must be off.’ He and Millie said goodbye to everyone and shook hesitant hands with his brother. From outside the gate they waved back to those in the garden. For a moment Millie caught Harry’s glance. She turned and went quickly behind the hedge.
‘You’re such a nice family,’ offered Mrs Spofforth. She turned to Mr Van Lorn and nudged him with an elbow like a spike. ‘Real English people,’ she said nodding around generally. She added, ‘And, it was nice to see the brothers part such good friends. Wasn’t it?’
Millie drove the pony and trap to the station. The late warmth of the summer day lay over the village, the elms scarcely trembled. Rooks sounded like rusty hinges. There had been an air-raid warning half an hour earlier but no enemy aircraft had appeared and now the sky was untroubled. They drove with silence between them, the sound of the pony’s steps echoing in the lane. ‘Will you be bringing Harry to the station later?’ James inquired when they were almost there.
She tried not to look surprised. ‘I said I would. His train goes at eight-fifteen.’
‘I see.’
‘I would have brought you both,’ she put in quickly, ‘but it wouldn’t do to have you engaging in fisticuffs in the trap, would it? The pony isn’t used to it.’
‘Millie,’ he pointed out with heavy patience, ‘I would not engage in fisticuffs with a junior officer, even if he is my brother.’
She added nothing. Bowley, the porter, smiled and helped Millie down from the trap. ‘Like the old days, seeing a nice little vehicle like this,’ he said. ‘A lot of people are going back to them now.’
He took James’s rail warrant and the couple stood on the station waiting for the small local train to Southampton. ‘Will you be busy this week?’ he inquired eventually. ‘Lots to occupy you?’
She nodded. ‘I thought of putting in an extra day or perhaps even two at the RAF station,’ she said. ‘It seems to be worthwhile. I feel I’m doing something even if it’s only dishing out refreshments and library books.’
He confided quietly and without looking at her: ‘I think the Luftwaffe are going to come at us soon. Like a pack of dogs.’
Millie shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll just have to see them off like dogs,’ she said.
He smiled at her, an occurrence that she noticed. ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said.
‘Thanks, James,’ she replied.
‘Look,’ he said quickly, ‘I’m sorry if it’s difficult just now. Being married to me, I mean. I’m under a lot of pressure.’
She regarded him unsurely. ‘That’s the reason you stay away?’ she asked.
‘What else?’ he asked. ‘You’re not worried about anything, are you?’
Firmly she shook her head. ‘No, of course not. But . . . it just hasn’t been right, lately, that’s all. I think you must admit that.’
He sighed and the sigh became lost in the steamy hoot of the small rural engine as it turned on the long bend from the coast and came towards the station. He bent towards her and they kissed. ‘It seems I can never quite say the right thing, doesn’t it,’ he observed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I am too,’ she said bleakly.
‘Sometimes,’ he added slowly, ‘I think you would have done better to marry my brother.’
At eight the same evening Millie again harnessed Horace to the trap and drove Harry to Binford Halt. For some time they did not talk.
Eventually he said: ‘You handle this very well now.’
‘There’s nothing to it,’ she replied quietly. ‘I read it all in The Field magazine. They’ve had an instruction course. If there’s bombing you are supposed to secure the horse to something solid and stationary, but not a lamp-post.’
Harry said: ‘That was terrible this afternoon, James and I. Squaring up to each other like that.’
‘It wasn’t the first time,’ Millie pointed out.
‘When we were kids, but not now.’ He touched her wrist.
‘And, after the other night . . . well, I suppose I felt guilty . . .’
‘Don’t,’ she said tightly. ‘Don’t be apologetic. There’s no need. It was both of us. Are you sorry?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Neither am I. It was something that happened.’ She gave the reins a soft tug. ‘Come on, Horace,’ she said. ‘Don’t let’s miss the train.’
Joanne had parted the curtains and opened two of the casement windows to the close night. London spread out to the limpid skyline, unlit, scarcely murmuring at that early morning hour. James stirred and his hand went to her, touching her slim stomach.
‘Have you been awake long?’ he asked.
‘For a while,’ she answered. She did not move towards him, nor he towards her. They lay on their backs, only a pale sheet covering them. ‘I was trying to imagine how it will be in New York or Washington again with all the lights.’
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They always talked about her leaving like this; obliquely, knowing that it was to come, neither saying nor asking anything definite. Her fingers felt for his hand and lay gently on his knuckles. Almost absently she moved it lower from her belly until he was caressing her between her legs once more.
He turned to her, easing the sheet away from her breasts. From his place beside her he looked sideways at them, outlined in the vague light, small eastern hills, with pinnacles, one near, one a little distance off. Her head turned towards him on the pillow, a pale round of face, her hair dropping across her cheek with the movement. They kissed with quiet passion. She added her tongue, something he thought perhaps English women did not do. His palms were now stroking unhurriedly against her cool breasts, the nipples finely tapered, the skin firm. He moved into a crouch above her, his legs straddling her waist. Her eyes glazed as she gathered him in her hands, cupping him, rubbing him, until his whole lower body throbbed. She coaxed him down between her arched and open thighs. Still on his knees he surveyed her, a slim whiteness in the bed, the hair framing the serious and beautiful face, the eyes closed in anticipation, the neck curved down to her naked shoulders and chest. He leaned to her and, oddly, kissed her on the cheek, like a fond relative. Her eyes opened to slits. ‘Will you come into me now, darling,’ she asked quietly. ‘I want you now.’
He did as she wished, submerging himself into her, feeling her belly bend like a bow towards him as he did so. The luxury, the pleasure of the simple, everyday act engrossed them. They moved together with the trust of lovers who were no longer strangers. James paused and whispered to her asking that she would pause also, to make the enjoyment last, to delay the climax. From the street below came the clink of milk bottles. Soon it would be light.
The sky was clearing to the left of her window, daylight edging across making its own white curtain. After their encounter they lay perspiring, watching it move over the brow of London. ‘It’s Wednesday,’ he said.
‘I think I must go home, sometime next month,’ said Joanne without emphasis. ‘I’m being pressed by my family and my boss. Various matters. He wants me to do some political profiles.’
‘August,’ he said. ‘That’s not long.’
The Dearest and the Best Page 38
