He stood in her encircling arms, his head bent. ‘You’ve guessed. I don’t feel too brave, Elizabeth, strutting about the stage in doublet and hose. I haven’t for some time. And today I got a letter from Mother saying that Roger Blaine, one of my schoolfriends, has come home wounded. I don’t think I’ll make a very good soldier, but how can I let the others…?’
‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘Oh, Harry, I wish you wouldn’t…’
‘I think I must.’
‘I know.’
They kissed, clung together. And Elizabeth thought, I knew this happiness could not last. They had been reconciled for a year now and had been wonderfully content. She forced herself to be brave, saying wryly, ‘Constance won’t like it.’
‘I dread telling Constance more than I fear the enemy, I can tell you,’ Harry answered.
So Harry joined up and was commissioned as a lieutenant, on the strength, he said, of nothing more than his public-school education. Elizabeth thought there would be a long period before he was sent to fight, but with casualties mounting he was dispatched to France in March.
In April, in a would-be decisive assault, the Germans attacked along a hundred and twenty-five miles of the line. Harry survived, though half his regiment was killed. He wrote, frankly, to Elizabeth:
The courage I see here every day moves me more than I can say. Nevertheless, I pray nightly for a light injury that will bring me home. I don’t reveal this to anyone else. I wonder if the others feel the same, and don’t tell me. To be honest, Elizabeth, I’m glad each night to kneel down in my striped pyjamas and pray, ‘Oh God, send me a bullet in the leg,’ because at least it means I’m still sane. Only a madman would think otherwise. It is worse than you could possibly imagine. Don’t tell Mama.
The last sentence was underlined. As Elizabeth read this letter, which had apparently evaded the censors, she felt desperate.
It had arrived on the day Gerry Fitzgerald joined up. Constance was furious, Gerry for once inarticulate. Later in the day, Elizabeth went to Constance’s office and said that she was going to join the VADs. This auxiliary branch of the nursing service had been set up because of the war. The nurses involved were volunteers who received minimal training and were used as aides for qualified nurses.
Constance Albury pulled at her grey hair until the hairpins rattled down, but only said, ‘Well, dear, I wish you well. I’ve been wondering if I should close down and go back to Scotland and open up the house as a troop convalescent home. I think you’ve all made the decision for me: first Harry, then Gerry – what a shock that is. Do you think he’ll lose it for us? – now you. It simply isn’t feasible any more, and perhaps I’d feel better doing something useful.’
‘People desperately need entertainment,’ Elizabeth pointed out.
‘I’ll get rid of the lease until the war’s over,’ Constance said assertively. ‘After that, we’ll reassemble and start again.’
Elizabeth smiled, with a confidence she did not feel. She was an actress, after all. But then, she thought, so was Constance.
She was interviewed, examined by a doctor, kitted out in stout boots and a thick dark skirt and blouse, given big white aprons and white strips of material for a hard-to-tie-on cap. She applied for France and was sent to Lewisham to be trained. The hours were long, as long as the casualty lists from France and Belgium. They began to receive men who had not just been wounded, but gassed.
Three months later she was posted to France.
She never told Harry how, just before she left for France, she met his old lover, Kit Sloane. She had gone to Constance’s small house in Covent Garden to say goodbye and, actress that she was, show off the VAD uniform she was wearing for this new part she was going to play. Constance was in London, gathering supplies for the hospital she was setting up in the vast family house near Edinburgh. Gerry, whose regiment was based in England, was on leave and helping her.
Constance had bought her London house from a man of eighty who had inherited it from his grandfather. It stood in a narrow street, a cul-de-sac, apparently left behind by time. Beamed eaves overhung the street, the windows were lead-lighted, the interior was panelled in oak and the staircases were narrow and bizarrely winding. Constance had purchased the house because she claimed that even if it were not quite old enough to have been visited by Shakespeare himself, it might have been lived in by someone who had known him, or at least seen him. Gerry was wry about the place. He had little enthusiasm for a house without a bathroom and with a seventeenth-century kitchen not many cooks would work in. Constance’s present cook earned double wages.
Gerry opened the thick, studded door to Elizabeth himself. He looked appalled to see her. Elizabeth stuttered, ‘Gerry – is something the matter? Is this an inconvenient time?’
He shook his head and found his tongue. ‘Constance will be delighted to see you in your new government rig-out. But, darling Elizabeth, she has another caller, for the same sad reason. He’s a soldier about to be posted to France. Unhappily, patriotism is not all you have in common. You might not care to meet him.’ He paused.
‘Who is it?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Kit Sloane.’
‘Oh my God!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. She and Harry had talked of Sloane, Harry ruefully, she saying little, treading on eggs. She was indignant about the pain Sloane had caused Harry during their unhappy affair. However, Sloane had been abroad. Neither of them had been forced to decide if they would meet or avoid him if the occasion arose. Now she told Gerry, ‘This is very awkward. Perhaps I’ll come back later.’
‘Sloane won’t mind you,’ Gerry said. ‘The question is, do you object to meeting him?’
‘Not really,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It was a long time ago. Harry’s forgiven him, I know that.’
‘Well, come up then,’ Gerry said. ‘Constance won’t pardon me if I let you leave. Give me a moment to orchestrate all this.’
He leaped upstairs, while Elizabeth, conscious that the ground was being prepared for her entrance, followed slowly. They were, after all, stage people. Given that a new scene was about to open, they would play it – might even enjoy it.
Elizabeth was not above pausing at the top of the stairs and straightening her back before making her entrance. She walked into the room behind Gerry. The room was small, heavily furnished and rather dark, being lit by a leaded window, and several lamps standing on tables. When she came in, a figure in khaki was seated with his back to her. Constance rose from her own chair and came forward with her arms extended. The figure got quickly to his feet and turned to face her.
Constance, holding Elizabeth’s hands, looked her up and down as she stood there in her blue serge skirt and coat. ‘Oh my dear,’ she deplored. ‘We must get you to a tailor and produce something better than that.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘I’m not appearing in it nightly at the Imperial,’ she said.
‘That’s no excuse for the garments,’ Constance said. She turned. ‘Now – you must meet Kit Sloane.’
Elizabeth had been very conscious of the tall figure behind Constance. She raised her eyes to him. Constance stepped aside. ‘Elizabeth – Kit Sloane. Kit – Elizabeth Armitage, of my company— ‘She corrected herself ruefully: ‘Of my former company.’
‘This war will soon be over, and the former company, and cast, back into the present tense again,’ said Kit Sloane. ‘Meanwhile, men will flock into the army if they think there is a chance of being nursed by the Miss Armitages of this world.’
Sloane was six feet tall, well built, well proportioned. The sun of South Africa had bleached his hair almost white. His skin was tanned, though a little lined around very blue eyes. His stance was strong. He held himself well, yet, Elizabeth thought, he lacked vitality. Was this the man, so much the conventionally good-looking actor, who was able to do so much harm to Harry – to so many others? thought Elizabeth.
He advanced and took her hand. He raised it to his lips, then looked up at her with winning boldness. He straigh
tened up. ‘Having been away so long, I haven’t been able to see you act, but I’ve followed your brilliant career through the British papers and yearned to see your Rosalind, your Joan of Arc – so many other parts. And yet you are very young.’
Constance hit him on his khaki-covered arm. ‘Come, come, Kit,’ she reproved, ‘do not start practising your charm on Elizabeth. I think it’s time for some tea, or a drink if you like. There’s some good champagne downstairs. Perhaps I should patriotically celebrate all my actors past and present getting into uniform. I don’t feel like it, though.’
‘We’ll celebrate for you,’ Kit announced.
‘I’d rather have tea,’ Elizabeth said diffidently.
Oh, you mustn’t spoil the party,’ Kit exclaimed.
Gerry brought up a magnum of champagne. Elizabeth took a seat on the sofa with her glass. Kit, with his, sat down beside her, very close. He took her hand. ‘Oh, to think that this hand will soon be pouring water and soothing fevered brows. Would you care to practise on mine?’ He bent his head forward. ‘I feel quite dizzy,’ he claimed.
Elizabeth laughed. ‘I’m untrained,’ she said. ‘You must wait until I’ve finished training. I’m sure you wouldn’t want an amateur. I might do more harm than good.’ She wondered if he knew of her relationship with Harry. Surely he must.
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re as good as any professional,’ he told her. There was some ambiguity in his tone.
Constance’s face was becoming rigid. ‘I wish you’d ask to come to the hospital I’m opening,’ she interrupted. ‘I need all hands. But I don’t suppose you will.’
‘If I can be more useful at the Front…’ Elizabeth murmured. She stood up. ‘Well, my dear. I must go back.’
‘Does your family know yet you have joined up?’ Constance asked.
Elizabeth winced. ‘Alas, no. That will be my next call.’
‘My motor’s outside,’ Kit Sloane offered. ‘And as it seems to be raining, perhaps I could drive you somewhere.’
‘Gerry is driving Elizabeth home,’ Constance announced suddenly. ‘It’s all arranged.’
Gerry betrayed no surprise. Elizabeth opened her mouth to exclaim, then closed it again, seeing that Constance was trying to keep Kit Sloane away from her. Kit, who must have known that there could have been no prior arrangement, held his peace. Elizabeth left with Gerry.
‘He’s a rare, bold fellow,’ Gerry observed as they walked to the mews where Constance’s car was kept. ‘But you’ll have noticed that.’
‘He’s always been described to me as a great seducer,’ Elizabeth observed, ‘as if no one he set out to get could resist him. But I found him resistible. Very much so.’
‘It was true once that Kit Sloane could have almost anyone he liked. He’s past his prime now, I think,’ Gerry observed calmly. ‘That’s the way with men like that. He’s got a little seedy. And then, the atmosphere of the world has changed. We’re at war now. But be warned, with Harry away from home, he may be back.’
He opened the door of Constance’s long, low Lagonda, and Elizabeth got in. ‘You mean he’ll try to make love to me?’ questioned Elizabeth.
‘That’s what I mean,’ Gerry said. They set off for Linden Grove. ‘Though I wouldn’t use the word “love” where Kit Sloane’s concerned,’ he added.
Elizabeth thought no more of Sloane for the rest of the journey. She was too worried about Bella’s reaction to the news that she had decided to nurse, had even been posted overseas. She could not imagine Robert or Harriet weeping about her. But, strangely, Bella did not either. ‘We must all make sacrifices,’ she said stoutly. ‘It will not be easy for any of us.’
‘All over by Christmas,’ Robert said good-humouredly, standing, as usual, legs apart in front of the fireplace. He was not unhappy; he had just been successful in getting a big Ministry of War contract for soldiers’ uniforms.
When Elizabeth got home to Chelsea in the early evening after a wet journey by bus, Kit Sloane was standing in her porch. ‘I’m soaked through,’ he said. ‘You’d better ask me in.’
‘Very well,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But I’m afraid I have to go out to dinner later.’ This was untrue. She just wanted to make sure that he would not stay long. She could not make out what he wanted of her.
As they went in he said, ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
She lit the fire in her little sitting room, then led him to the kitchen, took his army greatcoat and put it across a chair in front of the kitchen range.
They went upstairs and sat down, both still rather wet, in front of the fire. ‘A brandy?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing, thanks.’ He paused. ‘This is awkward.’
She wondered if this air of confusion was yet another part of his seducer’s repertoire; and if so, which?
‘Spit it out,’ she advised discouragingly.
‘Well, I know you don’t like me—’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘You don’t like me for what you think I did to Harry.’
She looked at his face, assessing it. The mask of false confidence had gone. It was now the face of a handsome but weak man.
‘That’s true,’ Elizabeth told him. ‘You picked him up when he was a lonely young man, seduced him, then dropped him. It’s not so different from seducing an inexperienced girl. Perhaps worse in some ways.’
‘Why worse?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know – you left him thinking he would have to spend the rest of his days fighting his own impulses or breaking the law. He feared becoming some mincing actor wearing rouge all day – you know that sort. He knew nothing, had no one to turn to. He spent years fearing himself because of you. Because he had to keep it secret, no one helped or advised him. All that was your doing. Do you expect me to like you for it? Would anybody, knowing the story?’
‘It’s a one-sided tale.’
‘Have you come here to exculpate yourself, after so long? I don’t know why you’re bothering.’
He got up and went to the sideboard, where he poured himself a drink. With his back still turned, he said, ‘I know, I know. I didn’t come to make excuses. I came because I wanted to find out how Harry was – to make amends, if I’d hurt him.’
‘I can’t talk to you about this,’ Elizabeth said hotly. ‘It was over before I knew Harry. Don’t come to me for forgiveness. Go to Harry. He’s the person you hurt.’
He turned round to face her. ‘Harry isn’t here,’ he said. ‘You are. Look – we’re all in uniform, you, me, Harry. Face it – we may be killed, all or some of us. I want to reassure myself that Harry’s all right. I feel happier already now I’ve met you. He couldn’t have done better. If it’s any consolation to you, I’m fit for nothing any more. I’m going through the motions. I wish to God I could fall in love. I feel my life’s in tatters. Harry’s all right; I’m not.’
There was a silence. Elizabeth said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I had it coming, I suppose.’
Elizabeth did not know how to reply. ‘You had a good time while it lasted, by all accounts,’ she said wryly.
He laughed, though with an effort. ‘You can say that again.’ He took a step closer. ‘You wouldn’t care to dine with me one evening?’
She shook her head. ‘Since we’re being frank with each other – no. I don’t think so.’
‘All right. Well, I must go,’ he said. ‘Give my best to Harry when you see him. Tell him I asked after him – tell him…’
‘You’re sorry?’ she prompted.
He shook his head. ‘Never say sorry,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Never apologise, never explain,’ he told her. ‘I’ll fetch my coat from the kitchen.’
After he had left the room, Elizabeth sat quite still. He was still proud of all his seductions, whatever the results had been for others. To him it was a game he had been good at, which he’d played for all it was worth. There were winners and losers, and the losers shouldn’t complai
n. He’d no more apologise for his past than he would if he’d opened the batting for Middlesex at Lord’s. But he’d come as close as he could to regret for what he’d done to Harry. Then he’d been unable to resist asking her out. And if she’d said she’d go, what would he have done? She decided he’d have found himself trying to seduce her, the lover of the man he’d injured.
Kit Sloane came back into the room wearing his military greatcoat and cap. He was a fine figure of a man, she thought. Hollow, perhaps, but fine. She stood up. ‘Goodbye, Kit. Why don’t you write to Harry?’
‘I might. Thanks for the drink,’ he said easily.
As she opened the front door he asked, ‘How’s that bitch of a mother of Harry’s, by the way? Still the same?’
‘Completely unaltered,’ Elizabeth told him.
He smiled, touched his cap to her and stepped out into the darkness of the night.
Chapter Thirty–Seven
At Amiens, where Elizabeth was posted, the VADs lived in wooden huts near the hospital. When it snowed, little drifts blew in under the doors – and stayed there, unmelting. The sound of the bombardment came to them from the front lines. She and Harry were able to spend their Christmas leave together in Paris. The city, far from the Front, was full of wounded soldiers and women in black, but it had not been bombed, or occupied and there was no sound of battle.
Harry was a captain now. ‘No military talent,’ he told her, with an attempt at lightness, but was forced to break off. Elizabeth knew that his promotion had come, as it so often did in this war, because his superior officers had all been killed. She put her hand on his. They were in a restaurant; snow was drifting gently down outside the window.
‘I feel a little guilty about not going home on leave,’ he said.
‘I went back in the summer,’ she told him. ‘No one understood. My Aunt Harriet sends poison-pen letters to women whose sons or husbands haven’t joined up. And my uncle’s making a fortune producing soldiers’ uniforms. I couldn’t speak to them. I couldn’t tell my mother what I do all day. I pretended I do a little dusting and arrange flowers for the soldiers’ lockers.’ She smiled for the first time since they had met at the station.
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