Caroline England
Page 31
“It’s coming,” whispered Bonita.
“Ssh.” Caroline laid her hand on her knee. “Don’t talk. This is homage we’re paying.”
The soldiers rested on their reversed arms. Up the grey, purple-hung street moved the procession. Sombre, but here and there lit with colour like jewels in a dull setting. It was then that Caroline heard the feet. Never at that hour could feet be heard in Piccadilly, the roar of traffic, as once the clop of horses covered it. It seemed incredible that the swaying crushed mass of people could stand so still. The line of slow-moving men seemed unending. The feet made Caroline dizzy. Then suddenly she caught her breath. The gun-team moving like one person. Over their heads the light caught the facets of the jewels, and lay on the wreath of flowers. Caroline was afraid she might cry. So much of her life had passed in this reign: The coronation oak when he came to the throne; Laurie standing by Ellison in case he forgot the words; John being so foolish and making that joke about “Miss Caroline’s husband.” Then the war. The King had not lost a son but never for a moment had she doubted that he suffered with them all. The coffin passed. She looked pityingly at the new King. Poor boy, not an easy task to follow such a father. He looked lonely. Mentally she prayed for him. Men were so weak and foolish, she did hope he would find a nice wife. Her eyes were suddenly full of tears. She gripped her hands together. One could not cry in public. But the poor Queen! She knew just how she felt to-day. She would never forget that dreadful drive behind the hearse. They would tell the Queen that time would heal. But it never did. Even now though she was sixty-five and nearly eighteen years had passed, she could cry for the feel of John’s arms and ache to hear Laurie say she was a naughty old woman. On went the procession, but for Caroline it was a blur. It was her own life passing.
“Grannie!” Bonita touched her. “It’s over. You said we’d have some Bovril afterwards.”
They stood up. The last of the marching feet were dying to a whisper. As the procession turned there came the throb of Chopin’s Funeral March.
Elizabeth’s nose was red. Her face was puffy from crying. She hated herself for giving way to what she was sure was spurious emotion. It must be because she had rushed home. All that trying to catch planes with a minute to spare had been exhausting. Helen looked at her with sympathy. ‘Poor old Betsy, she looked a hundred and ninety.’
“How about us having a drink? George put a case of champagne in the car. I’ll get some.” Helen came back with the champagne and glasses. She looked anxiously at the bottle. “Are you any good at opening them?”
Elizabeth with great efficiency removed the cork. “She doesn’t look as if she were going to die.”
“She is though.” Helen poured out the champagne. “She’s been hanging on until you came.”
“But she seems so ordinary.”
“I know.” Helen passed over a glass. “Drink that up, you look all in. When people are with her she pulls herself together in the most miraculous way. You should have seen her yesterday when Jim was here. Full of questions about Martha and getting into one of her ‘I’m-your-mother’ moods when she heard the baby had started. Poor Jim was in an awful uproar at being packed off. But you can imagine Mother, full of ‘a husband’s place at such a time,’ just as if people of Martha’s sort didn’t breed like rabbits.”
“Has it come?”
“Yes, it’s a girl.”
“Have you told Mother?”
“Yes. She was pleased, but these last hours she hasn’t thought of much else but getting you here.”
Elizabeth looked at the ceiling. “I wish we were up there.” Helen nodded.
“She’s been like that all the time. She can only hang on to be normal for a bit. The rest of the time she’s panting for breath and she won’t let anyone but Brownie and the nurse see her.”
Elizabeth lit a cigarette.
“Idiotic to go to the funeral.”
“I wonder.” Helen sipped at her drink. “She’s awfully pleased about it. Feels it made a lasting impression on the children.”
“Why didn’t she let Brownie look after them? No need for her to be there as well.”
Helen shrugged.
“She wanted to go. You know how she’s always been about things of that sort. Before you came she suddenly asked the nurse to fetch me and what do you think it was? She wanted me to arrange with George to let Bill go down and plant an oak at the hotel for the King’s coronation.”
Elizabeth smoked savagely.
“How like her, as if it mattered a damn.” She got up and walked to the window, her back was to Helen. “She’s had such a wretched life. For all she’s so fond of that house, she had a miserable childhood. When you think of all the things that our children have and what we had, though she did fuss and interfere too much. Then Father. Of course she never knew about Mrs. Dines,but I can’t believe that she didn’t feel that Father changed, though I don’t suppose she ever knew that he had ceased to care. Then Laurie dying. Then she hated my divorce. It’s worrying her still. I think that’s why she wanted to see me so much. Oh give me some more champagne,I feel like nothing on God’s earth.” Helen poured out another glass. Elizabeth drank half of it at a gulp. “She said Aldous hadn’t married again. That men were weak and silly about some things, but they never stopped caring. She wanted me to write to him. She said if you ever come together again. Forget you’ve anything to forgive. As if one could.”
Helen looked thoughtfully at her glass. Two idiotic people being lonely in two different corners of the world, she thought Elizabeth and Aldous. But she did not believe it would work. Just now Elizabeth in an overemotional mood might think of it, but she would be hard and bitter when she saw him.
“I wonder,” Elizabeth thought out loud, “what Mother would have done if she had known about Mrs. Dines.” Helen helped herself to some more champagne.
“I wonder.”
There was a tap on the window. Mrs. Hampshire looked in.
“I didn’t want to knock for fear of disturbing. How is your mother?” Helen made an expressive gesture. Mrs. Hampshire turned away her eyes full of tears. “It’s bad when she goes. Her sort won’t come again.”
There were running steps on the stairs. The sisters got up. Helen opened the door. Miss Brown hurried across the passage.
“Quick, dears. It’s the end.”
Shepherd Market
November 1935–July 1937.
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Noel Streatfeild
Mary Noel Streatfeild was born in Sussex in 1895. She was one of five children born to the Anglican Bishop of Lewes and found vicarage life very restricting. During World War One, Noel and her siblings volunteered in hospital kitchens and put on plays to support war charities, which is where she discovered her talent on stage. She studied at RADA to pursue a career in the theatre and after ten years as an actress turned her attention to writing adult and children’s fiction. Her experiences in the arts heavily influenced her writing, most notably her famous children’s story Ballet Shoes which won a Carnegie Medal and was awarded an OBE in 1983. Noel Streatfeild died in 1986.
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First published 1937 by William Heinemann
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