The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  “There definitely isn’t any scullery maid involvement,” I said. “And I don’t think it’s Toby being contrary. At least, not in the way you mean …”

  “Go on,” she said when I hesitated. “Unless he’s sworn you to secrecy, of course.”

  “In which case, you’ll ambush him when he least expects it, sit on him, and threaten him with a feather.”

  “Well, there are benefits to being taller and older and knowing all his ticklish spots,” she said. “I’d be interrogating him now, except he’s gone off somewhere with Simon Chester. I really don’t see why I should have to put up with Aunt Charlotte’s nagging about him, not without a very good reason.”

  So I took a deep breath and told her that while Toby hadn’t discussed the matter with me, I suspected he was rather more interested in boys than girls.

  “Oh! Like King James the First!” she breathed. “No wonder Toby’s avoiding Aunt Charlotte.” She sat there a moment, lost in thought. “Still, it didn’t stop King James fathering seven children. Or possibly nine, depending on which source one consults. Of course, there is controversy about the exact nature of the King’s relationship with George Villiers—”

  “Veronica,” I said, because she tends to wander rapidly off topic whenever she starts contemplating history. “It’s also against the law. Men go to prison for it if they’re caught. Look at poor old Oscar Wilde.”

  “Who? Oh, right.” She frowned.

  “Besides, it’s simply not done in Society,” I said. “Most people think it’s disgusting and depraved. Or else regard it as some sort of illness. Toby could get into terrible trouble. And Aunt Charlotte would have a fit if she ever found out.”

  Veronica’s frown deepened. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to hope that he’s careful.”

  “Hmm,” I said doubtfully. (Although, now I come to write this down, I realize that’s a bit unfair—Toby’s been extremely discreet so far.)

  “And perhaps he’ll grow out of it,” said Veronica.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Just as long as he doesn’t lose his heart to someone completely unsuitable in the meantime.”

  Like, say, Simon Chester. Not that I said this aloud. I had mentioned my suspicions about Simon and Toby to Veronica months ago, before we left Montmaray, but fortunately she hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.

  Mind you, I’m in no position to talk about unsuitable men, as I’ve been known to have some rather unsuitable feelings for Simon myself. One would think his constant presence would make my heart grow less fond, and there are certainly times when he irritates me nearly to death—when he’s baiting Veronica, for instance. And yet, he’s so very charming when he wants to be! And so good-looking and clever and kind to his horrible mother. He’s also one of the few people I can really talk to about Montmaray—he even wrote to the shipping company we used to deal with, to see if they had any news of Montmaray (they didn’t). It’s difficult to define my relationship with Simon. We’re not quite cousins, not quite friends, certainly nothing approaching lovers (apart from all the other complications, I’m not nearly glamorous enough for his tastes, judging by the women who attract his attention at parties). But sometimes I catch him giving me a considering look across the dinner table …

  I’m stopping that train of thought right there.

  I think I’ll go and try on my new hat again, and endeavor to make my hair stay underneath this time, instead of springing out all over the place like a very tenacious type of garden weed …

  29th April 1937

  Fussing over silly crushes and hats and hairstyles—how petty that all seems now, how contemptibly insignificant, in the light of what has just happened. Well, I realized the Spanish war was still going on, of course—wars don’t stop just because I’m too busy to read about them in the newspapers. And yet, this. Even the most hardened war correspondents are shocked.

  Veronica was the first to learn of it. She was hunched over the newspaper when Toby and I came in to breakfast yesterday, her face white, and I knew something was terribly wrong … but let me find The Times, so I can write down exactly what she read to us.

  “ ‘Guernica, the most ancient town of the Basques and the centre of their cultural tradition, was completely destroyed yesterday afternoon by insurgent air raiders. The bombardment of this open town far behind the lines occupied precisely three hours and a quarter, during which a powerful fleet of aeroplanes consisting of three German types, Junkers and Heinkel bombers and Heinkel fighters, did not cease unloading on the town bombs weighing from one thousand pounds—’ ”

  I sank into a chair as Veronica read on and on. “ ‘The whole of Guernica was soon in flames … Guernica was not a military objective … The market was full and peasants were still coming in … The whole town of seven thousand inhabitants, plus three thousand refugees, was slowly and systematically pounded to pieces … Next came fighting machines which swooped low to machine-gun those who ran in panic from—’ ”

  “Stop it!” said Toby, snatching the paper away. “That’s enough!”

  “Montmaray was the rehearsal,” Veronica said in a voice I hardly recognized, it was so choked. “The Germans practiced on us. And then they—”

  And I saw something I’d never seen before. Veronica was crying.

  Oh God, I thought. Captain Zuleta. His whole family lived there. They couldn’t possibly have survived this massacre.

  “Where did the aeroplanes come from?” said Simon, who’d brushed past me and seized the newspaper. “There were waves of bombers, where did they refuel? If they came from the north—”

  “They’re using Montmaray?” said Toby, horrified.

  “Why wouldn’t they? Now they have control of an island off the coast of Spain, they’ve got a natural landing strip and deep waters for their ships to anchor—”

  “Shut up!” I shouted, turning on Simon. “Stop being so … so rational! People we know are dead, shot and burnt and crushed to death, and you’re talking about how clever the Germans are at military strategy! They’re not even supposed to be in the Spanish war!”

  “We have to do something,” said Veronica, wiping her face with the back of her hand as she stood up. “We can’t let the Germans get away with this any longer. We can’t pretend it only affects us, not when they’re using Montmaray to attack others, to kill our friends—” And she strode out of the room, straight past Aunt Charlotte.

  “What on earth … ?” said Aunt Charlotte, stopping in the doorway and staring. Simon began to explain as I ran after Veronica, who’d headed straight for the library.

  “Where is it?” she muttered. “Was it in yesterday’s Times or—” She was rummaging through the newspapers on the big, round table. “Ah, here it is! The National Joint Committee for Spanish Relief.” She turned to me. “Some women from the Committee have gone to Bilbao. They’re hoping to evacuate children from the area and bring them to England.”

  “Oh, Veronica …,” I said helplessly.

  She grabbed a pencil and started jotting notes on the back of an invitation to yet another fork luncheon. “We need to take action, we need to make the British government take action against the Germans,” she said, almost snapping her pencil point, she was scribbling away so fiercely. “But first of all, we need to do what we can to help the Basque people. I’ll write to the Committee, offering our assistance. They’ll probably need Spanish-speaking volunteers, don’t you think? And then write—no, I’ll go and see Daniel. He’ll probably know some of the Labour politicians involved with the Committee. And we should telephone Anthony. His mother’s from Texas, isn’t she? I wonder if she speaks Spanish.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I said, picking up a very crumpled Manchester Guardian, which Aunt Charlotte thinks inappropriate for young ladies and Veronica keeps rescuing from the wastepaper bin. “Look, the Mayor’s launched an appeal for food for Spanish children. Actually, they prefer money, but they’ll accept condensed milk, canned soup, dried cereal … But isn
’t there a Fascist blockade? How are they getting the food into Spain?”

  “They’re not,” said Anthony grimly, that afternoon. He’d come round for tea, although he was as fired up as Veronica and barely able to stand still long enough for me to hand him a teacup. “There are half a dozen British freighters hanging round the harbor of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, crates of food rotting belowdecks. Can’t get past the Fascist gunboats into Bilbao. Worst of it is, there’s a British warship sitting right next to them, but that blasted government of ours won’t let it do its job! Can’t intervene in a Spanish civil war! That Potato Jones fellow is a darn sight braver than any of our navy admirals, that’s for certain!”

  “I know I shouldn’t even ask,” said Toby. “But who?”

  “Oh, they’re all named Jones, the captains of the freighters. Awfully confusing, so they’re called after their cargo. Potato Jones, Ham and Eggs Jones, Corn Cob Jones—”

  “You’re making this up,” said Toby.

  “No, it’s true,” I said, looking up from the newspaper. “It says here that a Labour MP shouted at the First Lord of the Admiralty, ‘Is the First Lord aware that the entire British fleet is now toasting Potato Jones?’ ”

  “Britain will have to overturn its non-intervention policy now, surely?” said Veronica.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Simon. “The Prime Minister doesn’t even support this evacuation of Basque children, I’ve heard. He thinks even that might be a breach of the non-intervention policy.”

  “You’ve heard?” repeated Veronica scornfully. “What, when you went round to 10 Downing Street for tea?”

  “Now, now,” said Toby. “Remember, peace begins at home.”

  “It’s charity that begins at home,” said Veronica. “Speaking of which, your job is to talk Aunt Charlotte into giving us a house for the children when they arrive.”

  “What children?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? The Basque children being evacuated!”

  “But I thought they were setting up a camp at Southampton for them,” Toby said.

  “They can’t keep thousands of children in tents permanently. The children will need to be moved to proper houses once they’ve been organized into groups. There’s bound to be somewhere suitable in Milford. Oh, and I must write to the Reverend Webster Herbert. He can organize his parishioners into helping …”

  Of course, Aunt Charlotte disapproves heartily of all of this. Refugees, Basques, Communists, Labour MPs, they’re all “beyond the pale”—and yet, even she couldn’t fail to be moved by the thought of starving children being bombed and machine-gunned. Toby was also cunning enough to point out that the National Joint Committee for Spanish Relief was a respectable charity organization, presided over by a duchess. So Aunt Charlotte has grudgingly agreed to let the Old Mill House in Milford be used to accommodate Basque children (“but only if there’s absolutely nowhere else for them to go, and only for a short while, mind you”). She’s forbidden Veronica from visiting Daniel but otherwise has been remarkably obliging. I think Aunt Charlotte believes Veronica will lose interest once the Season officially starts next week—that the exciting, exhausting round of cocktail parties and dinners and balls will push all thoughts of refugees from Veronica’s mind. This just demonstrates how little she knows Veronica.

  For while I would rather none of this had happened, I can’t help but rejoice at the change in Veronica as I sit here in the library this evening. She is almost back to her old self—writing lists of provisions, listening to the BBC news, and bossing Toby around, all at the same time. She’s even got Simon culling our pile of invitations, as we’ll need to go back to Milford to organize things.

  “But all the debutantes attend Queen Charlotte’s Ball,” Simon protests. “It’s supposed to be one of the highlights of the Season.”

  “What is it?” she asks, turning to me.

  “It’s run by Lady St. John of Bletso and held at Grosvenor House,” I explain. “We have to wear white and, er … curtsey to a giant cake.” Toby snorts with laughter.

  “I’m not going to that,” says Veronica firmly. “Not when there are important things to be getting on with.”

  “Well, you can’t get out of the Elchester dance,” says Simon. “It’s the first ball of the Season, and your aunt would have a fit if you missed that.”

  “And there’s a bachelor nephew they have in mind for you, Veronica,” says Toby mischievously. “Only thirty-eight, most of his own teeth, heir to the Elchester fortune—”

  “If meeting bachelors is the whole point of this Season business,” Veronica says, “then Aunt Charlotte ought to let me go and do volunteer work for the Committee in Southampton. Plenty of young men there. Of course, they’re all trade unionists and Labour Party members …”

  “I’d rather see you die a spinster than marry a Red!” shrieks Toby, doing a creditable imitation of Aunt Charlotte.

  “Nothing wrong with spinsters,” says Veronica. “Just look at Queen Elizabeth the First.”

  “We don’t need to, we’ve got you to look at if we want to see a royal tyrant in action,” mutters Simon. But I don’t think he really minds. I think he’s missed having a worthy debating opponent.

  18th May 1937

  Goodness, I’ve been busy these past few weeks—yet somehow scrubbing floors and whitewashing walls has proved to be far less tiring than standing round a drawing room eating creamed chicken and trying to make polite conversation. Why is that? Perhaps it’s simply that being useful always makes one feel better.

  We are now back in London, but only for a few days. I felt bad about poor Parker having to drive us back and forth between Milford and London, but things will be easier now that Veronica has passed her driving test and appropriated Toby’s Lagonda. I’m not sure what Aunt Charlotte will think about two young ladies zooming around the countryside in a red sports car, all by themselves—no, actually, I have a fairly shrewd idea of what she’ll think. Perhaps we should just forget to mention it to her …

  The Old Mill House, the reason we were in Milford, is now looking much improved. Its last tenant departed ten years ago, and although the roof and walls were sound, the insides were rather depressing—mildewed plasterwork, dirt caked on the flagstone floors, and not a stick of furniture. It took us (“us” being the Reverend Webster Herbert’s housekeeper, half a dozen village women, Veronica, and me) five days just to clean the place, then another couple of days to paint the walls. We brought over some tables and chairs from the attics at Milford Park, and Anthony has arranged for the delivery of two dozen camp beds and a couple of boxes of kitchen equipment. When Veronica and I left yesterday morning, the Milford Park handyman had just arrived to fix the boiler, and some of the women were making curtains out of the bunting used to decorate the village for King George’s coronation. I’m afraid the house will still be fairly primitive—only one bathroom, no rugs, and heaven knows what we’ll do for heating upstairs. But perhaps there’ll be good news from the Spanish front, and the refugee children will only need to stay a few months. Besides, spring is sweeping so beautifully across the countryside at the moment that it’s hard to imagine winter will ever make an appearance.

  In London, spring is rather more subdued. The sky is still ash-gray, any flowers daring to unfurl their petals are immediately showered in soot, and the trees seem yellowish and stunted after our week in Dorset. It is a little warmer than before, and the afternoons do seem a bit longer. And of course, the Season has officially begun …

  I attended my first ball last week, but I must admit it was more exciting to anticipate than to experience. Getting dressed up was probably the most enjoyable part. I wore a violet gown with a white lace overskirt and white kid gloves that reached nearly to my armpits (it took Phoebe and me twenty minutes to tug the gloves on and get all the pearl buttons fastened). Aunt Charlotte lent me a sapphire-and-diamond necklace with matching bracelets, I had my hair done by Monsieur Raymond, I curled my eyelashes with little tongs as
Julia had shown me, and I painted my lips Pearl Pink. I really did look quite pretty, I thought, as I inspected myself in the long looking glass in the hall at Montmaray House. Toby started to agree, then got distracted by Veronica descending the marble staircase in a swish of black taffeta.

  “Oh, absolutely not,” he exclaimed. “Those shoes have got to go.”

  With her long hair heaped on top of her head and her two-inch heels, she towered over him, to his indignation and her great glee (the two of them have been comparing heights ever since they were old enough to stand up straight).

  “Well, don’t expect me to dance with you,” he said. “I’ll look ridiculous.”

  He was joking, of course. He had the first waltz with Veronica while I danced with Simon, then we swapped partners. I sat out the next dance (trying not to think about how warm and firm Simon’s hand had felt resting on my waist). Anthony and Julia arrived fashionably late, and Anthony asked me if I’d care to join him for the fox-trot, although he was so bad at it that we quickly agreed to sit down. Toby was swamped with girls wanting his initials on their dance cards but managed to fight most of them off. He waltzed with Julia, though, three times, and they looked superb together, whirling around the floor. Later I found out they’d practiced for a whole winter, rolling up the rug in the drawing room at Astley Manor and trying to get Rupert to join in. I half wished Rupert could have been at the ball—not so much to dance with but to talk to—except he was at school, of course. Julia was busy catching up with her friends, Veronica got embroiled in a political debate with two elderly gentlemen from the Foreign Office, and Simon was occupied with Aunt Charlotte, keeping her supplied with champagne and vital information (“He’s the Brazilian Ambassador, you met him at the Londonderry dinner … She’s the niece of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. No, yellow isn’t her color, you’re quite right … That’s Miss Rosalind Christie, her mother writes those detective novels …”). So I spent quite a lot of time perched on my gilt chair watching the dancers, hoping no one was watching me and thinking what a wallflower I was.