“Oh!” I said. “Sorry.”
He grunted what I presumed was a greeting. He was sitting on a rock, scowling at the lake. The sparkling water, the fluffy clouds drifting through the pale sky, the gently waving grass, all seemed to mock his misery.
“No word from your family, then?” I ventured, sitting down beside him.
“Word?” he repeated with an angry laugh. “No. No words.” He gave my book a scathing glance. “What good are words, anyhow? Or books, or writings.”
“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “they can be a comfort. I’ve found. When things get very bad.”
His glare softened. He knew about us, about Montmaray. I think the Basque children found it a strange comfort to know that we, too, had lost parents, had lost our home. He sighed.
“But words are no good against enemies,” he said, turning back to the lake. “They are not guns.”
“Well,” I said feebly, “guns are certainly very … Except they’re rather …”
I really didn’t want to think about guns. My gaze fell upon my book, and I suddenly recalled Herr Toller’s introduction, which I’d read the night before.
“But, Javier!” I said. “Wait, listen to this.” I fumbled for the right page. “This writer has just escaped from Germany, so he knows what he’s talking about, and he says, ‘The power of dictators is limited. They can kill the mind for a time and they can kill it in any one land. But across the border, they are impotent; across the border, the power of the word can save itself … the word, which in the long run is stronger and greater than any dictator, and will outlast them all.’ ”
I looked up, but Javier remained silent, staring out at the lake. We both watched Carlos paddle through the blue-green water, his bearded chin held high, a line of ducklings bobbing in his wake.
“You think that?” Javier said at last. “About … across the border?”
“Sometimes, across the border is the only place where one can fight dictators,” I said.
Carlos reached the bank, shook himself vigorously, then flung himself into the soft grass to squirm around. Estella trotted over to join him, grunting happily. I saw that Carlos, at least, had adapted to this new life with ease. Why did humans insist on clinging to the past, to things that were lost, probably forever? Why were we so stubbornly territorial, so uncompromising—and so savage to one another—when animals managed to get along quite nicely, wherever they were?
Of course, the rabbits of Milford Park might have quibbled with my benevolent view of Carlos.
“You are right,” Javier said abruptly. “Words help. Mr. Herbert shows me the letter.”
“What—oh, Veronica’s letter in The Times.”
“That man, he tells lies about us.”
“Lord Elchester? Yes, he’s horrid.”
“I would write a letter—no, not a letter, a long story with the truth. But my English is bad.”
“Write it in Spanish,” I said. “Veronica will translate it.”
“No, they will not put it in the newspaper.”
“Well, The Times is awfully Conservative. But there are other newspapers.”
Javier shook his head impatiently. “No, I am bad at writing. Even at school, my best teacher said …” His voice broke. Was his teacher in prison now or turned traitor or dead? I didn’t know, and neither did Javier, and he probably never would know. How cruel war is, I thought, for the hundredth time. Not just for killing soldiers by the thousands, not just for murdering women and children, but for tearing apart everything that makes up a normal, civilized life—children growing up with their parents, going to school …
Javier suddenly lurched to his feet, turning his face away from me, towards the village. “I am late.”
“Well, good—” I said. But he was already slouching through the grass, his shoulders hunched, his dark head bowed. As though he felt even the word “goodbye” was useless.
23rd October 1937
I am seventeen years old today but feel about a hundred and two. This morning, in a fit of nostalgia and homesickness, I read over my old journal—the battered, sea-stained one I started last year. Goodness, who was that person writing it? She seems so young, so pathetically hopeful, dreaming of her debutante dance and sighing over Simon. I should like to travel back in Mr. Wells’s Time Machine and give her some helpful advice, except I don’t have any to offer. Besides, I think the Time Machine only went forward, into the future. And I don’t think I want to know about that, especially if there’s nothing I can do to avoid the awful bits.
I am in a gloomy mood, aren’t I? A lot of it’s to do with missing Toby, now up at Oxford, and Simon, who’s gone to London, on Aunt Charlotte’s orders, to continue sorting through the mess of FitzOsborne financial records and investigate whether Isabella left Veronica anything in her will. (The latter task is, of course, quite pointless. Isabella’s family may have been Spanish aristocrats, but they weren’t particularly rich and they didn’t leave her a penny. Also, the idea of Isabella doing anything as organized as writing a will is laughable.)
Meanwhile, Veronica has decided she needs a thorough understanding of the British parliamentary system before she can even begin to convince the British government to help Montmaray, so she’s started working her way through the library’s bound volumes of Hansard’s Parliamentary Debates. Which apparently date back to 1830. Veronica never used to procrastinate like this. But if she does believe she was, in part, responsible for Montmaray’s destruction (which is absolute rubbish, but no use telling her that), it might explain why she’s so reluctant to act now. Better to do nothing than do something if there’s the slightest chance her actions might end in disaster. Except we’ve already lost Montmaray, so how could things possibly get any worse? Not that I have a clue about where to begin, either.
Aunt Charlotte, who knows nothing of all this, has insisted Veronica take over Simon’s job while he’s away. Veronica is just as capable as Simon of writing letters and keeping track of Aunt Charlotte’s committee meetings, but is not very good at being cheerful and obliging—hence the shouting that erupts at intervals from the library. I try to steer clear of that part of the house.
Toby and Rupert did invite Veronica and me to luncheon at their college last week, which might have cheered us up—if it had happened. We’d planned to stay in London at Montmaray House and do some shopping, then take the train up to Oxford. But Aunt Charlotte said no, because Veronica’s would-be assassin is still on the loose. Even though, as Veronica pointed out, we haven’t heard anything from him, or the police, for months and months. Then Aunt Charlotte said that “Smith” (as she persists in calling Phoebe) wasn’t a suitable chaperone for us (too young, too incompetent—it’s just lucky our aunt doesn’t know about Phoebe’s Blackshirt brother), and that Barnes was needed at Milford, so that was that. I think Aunt Charlotte was just annoyed she hadn’t been invited to luncheon (which was a bit tactless of Toby, I must admit).
Most of my indignation was on Veronica’s behalf, because I’d thought seeing Oxford might provide some enjoyable distraction for her. But she told me she’d probably feel sick with envy if she caught sight of a lady undergraduate, so perhaps it was better she stayed away, at least until she got used to the idea of Toby being there. Apparently, Oxford has eight hundred female students now—almost one for every six men! Goodness, that’s eight hundred sets of parents who are progressive enough (and rich enough) to send their daughters to university! And that doesn’t include the girls who go to Cambridge or … Actually, girls aren’t awarded degrees at Cambridge, Veronica has just told me, nor are they permitted to join any Cambridge clubs, nor wear caps and gowns—although they are allowed to attend lectures, as long as they don’t speak or applaud.
So I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t want to go to university. I don’t think I have the right sort of mind for it, anyway, judging by Rupert’s letters. He is reading English Literature and says it’s like school, only worse. He says the tutors are all obsessed
with analyzing things. For instance, it isn’t enough to read a poem about Nature, and think it beautiful, and feel happy while reading it, and then drift off into a lovely memory of a summer’s day just after a sudden rainstorm, with the flowers still dripping and the warm, rich scent of new life rising from the black earth. No, one is expected to tear apart the stanzas and lines and words and even the spaces in between the words, and inspect all the broken pieces, and then write a long essay, with footnotes, about how and why the poet put it together in the first place. I think university would make me never want to read anything ever again.
I wrote back and asked Rupert why he wasn’t studying Agriculture or Biology or something like that. He replied that his father told him only a fool would try to learn that sort of thing from books, and if Rupert wanted to manage a farm, he could work on one of theirs—after he got a proper degree. Rupert also said he’d much rather be reading English than Economics, as his brothers did (or started to do—Charlie got sent down at the end of his first year for being drunk all the time and not turning up to exams). The rest of Rupert’s letter was about him finding the cook’s cat in the quadrangle after a fight with a terrier, and the veterinarian having to shave the cat’s hind legs in order to stitch up the cuts, so the poor thing now looks as though she were wearing a pair of long pink socks and is too embarrassed to be seen in public. It did not surprise me to learn that she is recuperating in Rupert’s room, sharing the space with three pigeons (in a box nailed above the window, in case the cat makes a sudden recovery) and the dormouse (on top of the wardrobe).
Rupert writes very good letters—not as funny as Toby’s, but more revealing of what he actually thinks and feels. In my letter to him, I just described what I’d been doing, which was not much—helping at the Old Mill House, mostly, and desperately trying to think of some indoor activities for the Guides. (Autumn has descended upon us like a wet gray blanket, and it’s not much fun shivering in the mist, icy raindrops trickling down the back of my neck, watching the girls practice their archery.) There was my article in The Evening Standard, but I thought it would be boasting to mention it to Rupert. Actually, it’s probably boasting to mention it here, except no one could possibly read this (my Kernetin is now so abbreviated that even Veronica would have problems deciphering it).
The article was all about the Basque children at Milford, and how beautifully behaved they are, and how well they’ve adapted to village life. I made sure I described them doing lots of wholesome English activities, like baking Victoria sponge cakes and going to church. I also explained how awful things were in Spain due to the war, especially with all the German bombing, but unfortunately, the editor took that bit out. (So it’s probably a good thing I didn’t follow Toby’s suggestion and send in something about Montmaray as well—they’d never have printed that.) Still, the children pinned up a copy of the article in the Old Mill House kitchen, and Veronica sent a clipping to Daniel, so I feel quite proud and almost like a proper writer.
There—recalling pleasant things does make one feel more hopeful about life! So I shall now list all my birthday presents—a string of seed pearls with matching drop earrings from Aunt Charlotte; a portable typewriter in a caramel-colored case from Veronica, Toby, Henry, and Simon; a copy of W. H. Auden’s Look, Stranger! from Daniel; a box of chocolates from Lady Astley; a bottle of Shalimar scent from Julia and Anthony, now returned from their honeymoon in France; and a blank journal with marbled sky-blue covers from Rupert, because I’d mentioned that I’d used up nearly all of my exercise book. And then the Basque children gave me a lovely birthday tea at the Old Mill House, and the Girl Guides presented me with a walking stick that they’d carved themselves, which will certainly come in handy, given Henry’s determination to get her tracking badge. I adore all my presents—but I think the typewriter and journal are my favorites, because they show that the others take my writing seriously (probably more seriously than I do).
I forgot to say that Daniel also sent us a newspaper clipping about Oswald Mosley getting hit on the head with a “metal object” after his Blackshirts started a riot in Liverpool, and Mosley having to go to hospital to see if his brain was all right, which is not really funny, but if anyone deserves to be hit on the head, it’s Mosley. The Blackshirts threw another brick through Daniel’s window, and his neighborhood has a lot of disgusting anti-Jewish slogans chalked, and even painted, all over the walls …
Oh, I’m back to the awfulness of life again. Bother. I think I’ll go to bed.
20th December 1937
We’ve just arrived back at Milford after a week in London. Henry desperately needed new clothes (one can almost see her sprouting upwards, like a bean plant), and the rest of us had Christmas shopping to do. Miss Bullock took Henry to the Zoo and the Natural History Museum, and I accompanied them to watch the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.
Veronica and I also had luncheon with Julia, at the Park Lane flat where Julia and Anthony are living while their house in Belgravia is being done up. Julia apologized for how small and squashed the flat was, but I didn’t think it was, not at all. It took up an entire floor of the building and seemed even larger because it was so bright. All the furniture was white, except for a chrome-plated sideboard, and the wallpaper was ivory with silver stripes. There were big vases of iceberg roses set everywhere, huge looking glasses on the walls, and a set of towering windows framing the wintry expanse of Hyde Park. It seemed as though everything should be freezing to the touch, but there was also a ferocious central heating system pouring hot air through vents in the floor.
“It’s like living inside a lightbulb,” said Julia. “Ant’s mother had it done up ten years ago, when I’m sure it was horribly fashionable, but … Oh well! Beggars can’t be choosers!”
There couldn’t possibly be anyone who looks less like a beggar than Julia. She brought back three trunks of clothes and jewelry from Paris, and all her new outfits are extremely chic, fit her superbly, and appear to have cost thousands of pounds. She has lost some weight (even her eyebrows seem thinner) and has stopped being pretty in favor of being glamorous. She also seemed more than a bit tired. Anthony was rushing off to a meeting at his club as we arrived, and Julia snapped at him, telling him his tie was appalling and to go and change it at once, which he did. He didn’t seem to mind being bossed about. Perhaps he likes it? But Julia didn’t seem to enjoy it much.
“Finally,” she sighed, sinking into a shiny white sofa once he was gone. “Now we can have a lovely chat. You must tell me everything you’ve been up to.”
Veronica talked about the Basque refugees for a while, but I thought Julia probably got enough of that from Anthony, so I told her about Henry saying she didn’t think much of the security arrangements at Buckingham Palace, and being very disappointed when Piccadilly Circus turned out to be utterly devoid of clowns, elephants, and acrobats.
“Heavens, that child!” said Julia, starting to laugh and looking slightly less weary. “And how’s our darling Toby?”
Veronica said he was his usual lazy self. He’s only attended two lectures all term (neither of which had anything to do with the subjects he’s supposed to be studying), he failed to hand in his last essay, and he spends most of his time having very long luncheons and even longer dinners. I did wonder why Julia didn’t already know this from Rupert’s letters.
“Rupert’s letters!” snorted Julia. “Goodness, a couple of sentences about the weather and his work and how are we? He might as well send a postcard. Do you mean to say you get proper letters from him? With actual paragraphs? Well, my dear! You are privileged—”
Veronica saw me starting to blush and quickly asked whether Julia and Anthony had visited the Louvre during their time in Paris, and was it true that it had a better collection of Roman art than the British Museum? Julia said she had no idea, but that the Mona Lisa was so tiny and dark she couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. The Eiffel Tower, on the other hand, seemed far larger than in pictur
es, especially when one’s husband insisted on one climbing hundreds of steps to the second level.
At that point, the maid came in to announce luncheon was served, but the subject of Paris was fascinating enough to last us all the way through the spinach soufflé and then the pheasant à la Normande.
“Actually, I’m surprised your aunt hasn’t sent you two over to Paris for finishing school,” said Julia, nodding at the maid to bring in the next course. “Or at least to do some shopping.”
Veronica explained about the FitzOsbornes not being very keen on France, on account of Napoleon shooting a hole in our castle wall, and then the disaster of the Great War. “Besides, she wouldn’t trust us over there by ourselves,” Veronica said as we were served slivers of an exquisite tarte au citron.
“What, she thinks you’d elope with an Anarchist?” asked Julia.
“Something like that,” I said, giving Veronica a meaningful look so she wouldn’t mention the Crazed Assassin. After all, the attack had occurred on Julia’s wedding day—had almost ruined the event entirely for her. And then, of course, I couldn’t help recalling Julia’s floods of tears that morning. I was longing to ask whether she now regarded her doubts beforehand as silly and schoolgirlish, or perfectly sensible. Was it wonderful to be married, I wanted to know, or terrible, or simply a relief after all the trouble everyone took to get girls married off? But it seemed rude to ask, and if Julia believed she had made a colossal mistake, she’d hardly admit it a mere six months later. I did ask what she did all day in London, as it turned out Anthony was often away at the family estate, learning how to manage it.
The FitzOsbornes in Exile Page 16
