by Mary Wesley
Somewhere in the neighbouring sky there sounded an aeroplane’s growling flight. Alert, Juno turned her head to listen. ‘A bomber?’
Robert said, ‘A Beaufighter, I think, one of ours.’
In Juno’s room Inigo and Presto whimpered. Juno leapt to her feet, threw Violet’s letter into the fire. ‘One of them is crying.’ She made for the door.
Robert shouted, ‘I want you. You are wanted. I want you all!’ But she was gone, she had not heard. He swore, ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ and reached with the poker to push Violet’s letter, which had fallen short of the fire, in among the logs.
FORTY-SIX
WHEN ILLNESS HIT THE village of Copplestone in 1942, its inhabitants stopped talking of Rommel’s defeat at El Alamein and the Allied invasion of North Africa; if one of their young men was serving overseas they congratulated him on being beyond reach of the most virulent strain of measles in living memory. It spread among the schoolchildren until every child was afflicted and the school closed. It reached out to far-flung farms and remote cottages; it infected any adult who had missed the disease in childhood and even some who had not. Within weeks John and Lily’s three children were in bed in the gardener’s cottage, and in the house Juno watched Inigo and Presto like a hawk, while Ann made everybody wash their hands in disinfectant and insisted that callers coming to see Robert discussed their business out of doors.
All the children had recovered and life returned to normal when Inigo and Presto came out in a rash. Within hours they had streaming colds, coughs and high temperatures. They were not yet a year old. Standing between their cots, his stethoscope dangling round his neck, the doctor told Juno and Robert that they had pneumonia.
‘I don’t want to be alarmist but their best hope is for us to have them in the hospital.’
In the hall he muttered to Robert of complications, hinted at worse to come and cursed the fact that it was impossible to obtain the wonder drug penicillin; every dose was reserved for men in the services. Juno protested at the thought of hospital, feared separation and was filled with alarm but, reading Robert’s expression, gave in.
Ann packed the children, well muffled in shawls, into Juno’s arms and Robert got into the driving seat. The doctor shouted, ‘See you at the hospital,’ and drove recklessly ahead. Robert followed more carefully, conscious of his cargo. When he looked at Juno’s face beside him it was a mask of terror; she had not slept for several nights and, like Inigo and Presto, had a streaming cold. He said, ‘They will be all right, I promise you they will. The doctor is being extra careful, that’s all.’
Juno said, ‘I don’t believe you.’
Robert snapped, ‘All right, don’t,’ fear reducing repartee to quasi-adolescence. The road to Copplestone had never seemed so long.
At the hospital cots had been made ready. Nurses in uniform snatched Inigo and Presto from their mother’s arms. There was a smell of disinfectant, and shoes squeaked on lino. The matron towered, kind but firm: the hospital would take over, no parent was allowed to stay with her child. ‘No, no,’ and again, ‘No.’ Juno could not stay, rules were rules.
Juno protested. Inigo and Presto filled their phlegmy lungs and bellowed. Matron said, ‘They will soon stop that, dear.’ Robert caught Juno’s arm, raised to strike. White-faced and sneezing, she continued to protest. The nurses whisked the babies away to their ward. Matron said, ‘Visiting hours are three in the afternoon to five, dear, come tomorrow, Mr Copplestone.’ Settled into identical cots, Inigo and Presto were surprised into silence.
The doctor joined Robert and Juno in the corridor. Producing his stethoscope, he applied it to Juno’s chest. ‘Stand still, Juno. Now let’s listen to your back. Let’s have a thermometer, matron. As I thought, one hundred and one. Take her home, Robert, put her to bed and keep her there tomorrow. I will give you a pill to give her last thing.’
Juno said, ‘I am not ill. I must stay with my children, they will think I deserted them. They will never forgive me, they will die without me.’
The doctor said, ‘What possible use can you be to them ill?’
Robert said, ‘Stop this rubbish,’ and dragged her out to the car.
When they arrived back, Ann said, ‘I will light the fire in her room and fill a hot-water bottle and when she’s in bed I will bring her some soup. She hasn’t eaten for days.’
Juno said, ‘Soup sounds familiar—’ and let Robert lead her to the library and sit her in his chair by the fire where she sat stiffly, shivering and sneezing.
Kneeling by her, Robert took her hands in his and said, ‘They are going to be all right, Juno, they are not going to die. They are going to grow up into lovely boys, fine men. I look forward to teaching them to ride and swim, shoot and fish. I shall teach them about birds and flowers. I love them. I saw them born. Please believe me.’
Juno said, ‘Orchids?’
‘Orchids, too, and peregrine falcons.’
Fumbling for her handkerchief, Juno snuffled. She said, ‘I am so terribly frightened,’ but said no more, for she could see that behind his brave words Robert was also afraid.
When she was in bed, Robert looked in. Ann had given her aspirin and there was a bowl of soup. He said, ‘I will ring the hospital last thing, I promise. Now, drink your soup while it’s hot and swallow this,’ and gave her the pill the doctor had given him. She swallowed it. Then he said, ‘Tell you what, I will telephone now and speak to that dragon.’ Coming back ten minutes later, he said, ‘Done that, she says they are both asleep. That’s good, you know.’ When she thanked him, he said, ‘Try and sleep, too.’ At midnight, when he came to tell her that he had telephoned again, Juno was deeply asleep thanks to the doctor’s pill. He was glad, because he did not want to tell her that the babies had woken and were restless, coughing and still very wheezy.
Ann kept Juno in bed the next day and Robert haunted the hospital, braving the matron, ignoring the rules to sit for hours between the babies’ cots, watching their fight.
Towards evening, the doctor came to make his examination, probing, listening, gently touching. Straightening up, he said, ‘I think you can go home now, Robert, get out from under Matron’s feet. You can honestly tell Juno they are better. I think, “turned the corner” is the colloquial term.’
Robert drove home to tell Juno, who was better too, and to eat a large meal, for he was ravenously hungry. After this, finding Juno awake and restless, he promised to telephone the hospital last thing before he went to bed, then he went out into the night and walked with his dogs across his fields and up through the wood to the top of the cliff, where he stood looking out at the sea considering his predicament.
It was long after midnight when he rang the hospital and asked to speak to the night nurse. He had undressed and stood in the cold in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. As he waited, his fear renewed itself; his heart, constricted by anxiety, thudded in his chest and he thought of Juno and the vagaries of love.
When the doctor himself answered the telephone, Robert felt complete panic. ‘Are they dead? Have they died? You said they were better—’
The doctor laughed. ‘Don’t be a fool, Robert. They are sleeping like tops.’
‘Then what the hell are you doing there?’ Robert shouted, ‘Why are you there—’
‘I do have other patients. One of them is in labour, having a hard time of it.’
‘Oh.’ Robert was deflated. ‘And the babies? Juno’s babies?’
‘As I said. Fast asleep, and by the feel of things their temperatures are normal. It’s amazing how resilient these little creatures are. You’ll have them home in no time.’
Robert groaned.
The doctor said, ‘You still there? Thought you had passed out. You can tell their mother the crisis is over.’
Robert said, ‘Thank God,’ to which the doctor retorted that he and the nurses and even matron had not been exactly idle and, ‘whoever their father was must have had a strong constitution’. Then the doctor let out a shout of lau
ghter and said he must get back to the patient in labour. Robert replaced the receiver and went upstairs and on the landing stood for some minutes taking deep breaths.
Juno’s door was ajar; he crept in. The room was chilly, the fire dying. He moved cautiously to put wood on the fire.
Juno said, ‘I am not asleep, too anxious. Did you telephone?’ She raised herself on her elbow.
Robert said, ‘They are sleeping, their temperatures are normal. He says, I spoke to the doctor, that you can see them tomorrow. They are going to be all right.’
Juno said, ‘Oh, God! Oh, Robert, you are crying.’ She reached up and caught hold of him. ‘Why don’t you get in, then we can cry together?’
Demurring, Robert said, ‘What about your cold?’
She said, ‘I will give it to you,’ and held back the bedclothes, so he got in and later, when she woke after sleeping in his arms, he thought he should make light, excuse what had happened. He said, ‘Oh, darling, this is what’s called one thing leading to another,’ and she said, ‘I thought it was called pleasure, a hugely enjoyable pleasure, I had no idea. What a surprise.’ When again he prevaricated, ‘You have a cold, I should not have—it was an aberration, I am too old, much too old—’ she said, ‘Oh really?’ and, ‘What nonsense,’ and, ‘Stop quibbling,’ and, ‘Have we time to do it again before we get up to go to the hospital?’
He simply said, ‘Yes.’
1965
FORTY-SEVEN
JUNO LEFT HER PARCELS in the restaurant cloakroom and came back to sit in the bar, choosing a table for four. Then, agreeably tired from a morning’s shopping, she stretched her legs and looked about her. A few tables away a middle-aged couple were sharing a joke, in the far corner a group of men discussed business, a young couple perched close together at the bar, and at the table next to her a solitary man read the Evening Standard and sipped vodka and tonic. As Juno sat down he lowered his paper, then raised it again.
Seeing her arrive, the barman came across with a glass of champagne on a salver. ‘Good morning, madam, Mr Copplestone’s order, he’s reserved a table for lunch and will be a few minutes late.’
Juno said, ‘Thank you, that’s just what I need,’ and sipped the champagne.
The solitary man lowered his newspaper and said, ‘Juno.’
Turning to look, Juno said, ‘Jonty.’ The street door opened abruptly and a party of people came in talking loudly. Juno quickly swallowed another mouthful of champagne.
Jonty said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Meeting my family for lunch, and you?’
‘Meeting my daughter.’
‘You married?’
‘I married a girl called Sheena.’
‘I remember her.’ (I bet his mother was pleased. I must not say suitable, sexy or rich.) ‘And how is your mother?’ Pleased that her voice was steady.
‘She died.’
Juno said, ‘I am sorry. And your aunt?’
‘She died, too, soon after my uncle. My father died ten years ago, heart attack.’
Juno thought, and the old labrador? He must have popped off first. She said, ‘Oh dear, sad.’ She sipped and replaced her glass on the table. Her hand was quite steady. She said, ‘I didn’t know. You have a daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just the one?’
‘Yes. Juno, what are you—’ Jonty’s question was lost in the brouhaha of another group, who pushed past on their way to the restaurant. When they were gone, he said, ‘You look wonderful, you haven’t changed at all.’
Juno said, ‘You look pretty much the same yourself. What is your daughter called? Is she beautiful?’
‘Victoria. I think her beautiful. She’s late.’ He seemed worried by this.
‘Girls are apt to be.’
‘She was meeting some boyfriends.’
‘Girls do that, too.’
‘It’s the boyfriends I worry about.’ He sounded pettish.
Juno said, ‘Well, these days there’s the pill.’
Jonty flushed and gulped the rest of his vodka. ‘You are married?’ He sounded aggressive.
Juno said, ‘I am.’ He had not changed all that much; broader, definite suspicion of stomach, coarser perhaps, the black hair was going grey and sliding away from this temples. It was considerably thinner, too. He was on the wane.
Jonty said, ‘This is impossible. Can’t we go somewhere quiet and talk?’
Juno said, ‘I am meeting my husband, and you are meeting your daughter.’ (The old Jonty would have giggled and said, ‘Let’s arrange for them to have lunch together.’)
Jonty said, ‘We couldn’t find you, we couldn’t find your aunt.’
Juno felt a surge of rage such as she had only experienced once before, on the occasion when she quarrelled with Bert in the cowshed. She said, ‘You can’t have looked very far, she’s in the telephone book. She is still alive.’ She drank a mouthful of champagne. Then she said, ‘I was only part of the furniture.’
And Jonty exclaimed, ‘No!’ so loudly that people looked round and stared.
‘And Francis?’ Juno said. ‘What’s happened to Francis?’
‘Francis was killed in the war.’
Juno said, ‘I did not know.’
A comfortless silence grew between them, to be broken by Robert swinging in from the street exclaiming, ‘So sorry to be so late, darling, please forgive me. Did the barman give you a drink? Oh, good, he did. You must have another to keep me company. I’ll wave to him.’ He waved. ‘We will have a bottle. The boys are coming, aren’t they? I am terribly sorry, but I have to telephone, make two calls. Do you mind? Are you starving?’
Juno said, ‘No.’
Robert said, ‘I’ll try not to be long,’ and was gone.
Jonty said, ‘Is that your husband?’
Juno said, ‘Yes.’
Jonty said, ‘But he is old.’
Juno said, ‘But gorgeous. We took a short cut through the generations. It took me for ever to persuade him to marry me. He was afraid it would make me look ridiculous and him more so.’
‘He is certainly not that,’ Jonty watched Robert’s departing figure. ‘How old is he? Seventy?’
‘Eighty.’
‘And you are?’
‘Forty.’
‘And happy?’
‘Oh yes.’
Sounding sincere, Jonty said, ‘I am glad.’
Juno said, ‘And you?’
‘Oh, you know, so-so.’ He looked, she thought, rather sheepish, as if he was about to say something along the lines of, ‘We rub along,’ but his face, lit up and he said, ‘Ah! Here comes my daughter.’ And then, ‘Good God. Who is she with?’ and the blood drained from his face as Inigo and Presto hurried up to their mother, exclaiming, ‘Ma, we are late, forgive us.’ And, ‘It’s all Victoria’s fault. This is Victoria; Victoria, this is our mother. We couldn’t get her out of the shops in Carnaby Street. Look at all this, Ma,’ and they waved Union Jack carrier bags. ‘You should see the rubbish she has bought, and look at these which we bought for Bert, d’you think he will wear them?’ They snatched from a bag Union Jack pants. ‘The very tops, the true essence of vulgarity.’ Both were in a state of high spirits.
Juno shook hands with Victoria, who was indeed beautiful, and said, ‘What have you done with your aunt, boys?’ She was not looking at Jonty, avoiding his eye.
‘She’s on her way,’ Presto said. ‘She said don’t wait for her, start lunch. She’s gone over the top, bought presents for everyone back home in Montreal, lashed out in a big way. We couldn’t stop her,’ he said, laughing. ‘Didn’t try. We are starving.’
And Juno, aware of Jonty beside her, giving him the chance to revive, said, ‘He is talking about my sister. If you remember my mother went to Canada; she married again and my sister is the result. Two weeks younger than her nephews, another example of short-cutting through generations. My mother died a year ago. These are my twins, Inigo and Presto. Darlings?’ She gestured an intro
duction.
Easy-mannered and casual, they shook hands with Jonty. ‘How d’you do?’ Their eyes, black and palest blue, wandering incuriously past him towards the restaurant, anticipated lunch.
Juno said, ‘Sit down, for God’s sake,’ as the young people milled about her, ‘you are making me giddy.’ But Victoria exclaimed that she must go to the lavatory, and Jonty that it was time to leave, his wife would be waiting for them at Wilton’s. He said to Victoria, ‘Hurry up, then,’ which she did, disappearing and reappearing just as Robert rejoined them, having made his telephone calls, but in time to register the scene and Jonty departing. Robert said, ‘Hello, everybody, ready for lunch?’ Noting her pallor, he very quietly asked Juno, ‘Are you all right, darling?’
Juno said, ‘I hope so. That was Inigo’s father, Robert.’
Robert murmured, ‘So I observed, and Presto’s?’ For Jonty, shaking hands with Presto, had visibly flinched.
Juno said, ‘Killed in the war.’
Robert sighed, ‘Ah—Watch out, he is coming back.’
Jonty, reaching the street, had turned about and, leaving Victoria standing on the pavement, came up to Juno and with his face close to hers hissed, ‘If those two are fucking my daughter, it’s incest.’
And Juno said, ‘Yes, it is.’
About the Author
Mary Wesley (1912–2002) was an English novelist. After she published her first novel at age seventy, her books sold more than three million copies, many of them becoming bestsellers. Her beloved books include Jumping the Queue, The Camomile Lawn, Harnessing Peacocks, The Vacillations of Poppy Carew, Not That Sort of Girl, Second Fiddle, A Sensible Life, A Dubious Legacy, An Imaginative Experience, and Part of the Furniture, as well as a memoir, Part of the Scenery.
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