At Victoria, she got on a train, then sat in a daze throughout the journey, hungry, tired and heavy. The horrible scene at Linden Grove kept going through her head. Even she, knowing the Warrens so well, could hardly believe that her Aunt Harriet had ejected her, at night, from the house where her mother was ill, on the very day of her return from the Front. How could she have done it? And what a fool Elizabeth had been to allow it to happen. She hadn’t been thinking straight. She should have sat down and refused to move.
She was, perhaps, as shocked as any soldier who had spent too long in the lines. As she sat in the train, she remembered that last holiday she and Harry had had at the farm. One evening, after dinner, as they sat outside in the warm darkness of a September evening, she had told Harry, ‘You must ask for leave. Tell them your mother is ill, or you’re getting married – anything. It doesn’t matter what you tell them.’
‘The men are not going to appeal for compassionate leave and go home to rest,’ he muttered. ‘They’re staying where they are, and so must I.’
‘They may not have reached the stage you have,’ she said. ‘How many of them have served as long as you?’
He could not answer. Of the men he had come out with in 1915, two-thirds were dead or had been sent home wounded.
‘Harry, for Heaven’s sake, try to get leave,’ she said. ‘I beg you.’
There was only silence. He was lost in his own darkness.
‘I don’t want you to die,’ she said.
‘I feel as though I’m dead already,’ he told her.
She thought back to when they had first made love, in Oxford, the years of fun, challenge, tension at the Imperial. It seemed impossible that a few years could have brought them to this. ‘You’re breaking my heart,’ she’d said. ‘Harry – go, go now – desert if you have to.’
She had slept lightly all night, waking often to find Harry still awake. She remembered how he had said that only she made his life tolerable – and it was probably true that neither of them could have gone on so long without the other. But that was not enough now to blot out the sights and sounds of war, or the fear of dying. He was locked in a nightmare. He would not or could not speak about it.
That was their last night together. They did not meet again before he was posted to Ypres. And now Harry was dead and she was expecting his child. Elizabeth had spent two years watching lives thrown away in battle. Now there would be a new one – her child.
She had to walk the two miles to Chivering House. Cold and exhausted, she trod the narrow, frosty lanes, carrying her case. As she plodded along the long, silver thread of road in moonlight, she was conscious of coming to the end of her strength. She must find shelter. If Lily wasn’t there, Gordon would have to take her in. If neither of them was at home she would have to persuade the servants to give her a bed. She told herself sternly that if she couldn’t even manage to find somewhere to sleep tonight, she might as well abandon any notion that she would be able to tackle the far worse problems of rearing an illegitimate child alone.
As she made her way slowly up the drive towards the house, she strained to see lights burning through the trees. Not a glimmer was visible and her heart sank. Perhaps the house was shut up, she thought in horror. Well, she’d just break a pane and get in, sleep in a shed if she had to. Nothing mattered but rest.
She got closer and closer, and still there was no sign of light. All the front windows were dark but, to her relief, when she walked round the house she saw a glimmer from behind the drawn curtains of what she remembered to be the dining room. She rapped on the glass, calling, ‘Lily! Gordon! It’s Elizabeth. Can I come in?’ No one came. She rapped and called out again. The curtains parted a little. A startled, puffy face, Gordon’s, looked out. A smile, hopeless and bewildered, came over it. He pushed up the window and helped her in over the sill. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘Elizabeth!’
She took in the room. On the long, polished table stood the remains of a meal for one person. It seemed to have been some kind of stew. There was also a glass and a brandy decanter, with the stopper out. The fire was not lit. Gordon had been sitting since his supper drinking brandy in this cold room.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he mumbled. ‘I see you’ve got a nurse’s uniform on. Did Lily send you?’
‘I’m sorry, Gordon. I’m stuck for a bed. I hope you don’t mind,’ she replied. Lily was obviously not at home. Gordon, alone in this neglected room, was confused and drunk.
He said, ‘No – no. Lily…’
‘I came to find Lily really. I see she’s not here. I should have telephoned.’ She was still standing by the open window, holding her case. She began to feel very dizzy. ‘May I sit down? I only got back from France today.’
‘France? Of course. France.’
‘You’d better shut the window, Gordon. It’s awfully cold in here.’
As he did so and she sat down, her head spinning, he stared at her, recalled something and said, ‘Very sorry to hear about Hislop.’
‘Yes.’
‘What a long, weary war this has been,’ he said. ‘We can’t get any flour, you know.’
‘Really?’
The conversation was sliding all over the place, making no sense. She guessed that it was not just because Gordon had drunk half a decanter of brandy that evening. Something in the house was very wrong.
‘Where are the servants?’ she asked.
‘I tried to sack them. Father took them off my hands in the end. They’re at Crewe End. So’s the boy, of course.’
Elizabeth looked at him pityingly. ‘Lily’s left you. She has, hasn’t she, Gordon?’
He did not reply.
‘I’m very sorry, and I’m so sorry to impose myself like this. Is no one here to look after you?’
He shook his head. ‘Mrs Holmes, a woman from the village, comes in.’
Elizabeth looked pointedly at the remains of the unappetising stew. Gordon laughed. ‘She’s no cook,’ he agreed. He said, rather desperately, ‘But – but have you eaten?’
Plainly, if she admitted she had not, he would be unable to do much about it. She said, ‘I’m just back from France, so at least I know how to make an omelette. There must be eggs. Shall I make one for both of us?’
‘I’d love it.’
She pulled herself to her feet and led him to the kitchen, where it was warmer – the range at least was alight. He stood uncertainly on the tiled floor. Elizabeth set about making the omelette. She said, half to herself, ‘Really, I feel quite cross with Lily. She’s left you in a pickle, hasn’t she? Honestly, Gordon, you can’t go on like this.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘There’s a war on. Brave men are dying and all I’m doing is drinking myself to death. Out of self-pity because my wife left me. My Aunt Caroline – everyone – has pointed this out to me. The vicar, too – Father sent him round. Pull yourself together, Gordon, seems to be the motto.’ He burst out, ‘You saw her in France, didn’t you? What did you say to her – did you encourage her to leave me?’
‘Of course I didn’t. Why would you think that?’
‘Well, what did she say? She came back, she packed and left. Do you know where she is now? I’ll tell you. She’s living in a large flat overlooking Regent’s Park and appearing in nightclubs. Nightclubs! My wife. It’s indecent. What sort of a fool does it make me look? Is there another man involved? Did she say anything about that?’
Elizabeth split the omelette in two and put a plate in front of him. She found bread, butter, knives and forks. She was famished. As she ate she said, through a mouthful, ‘Lily didn’t mention anything about another man. I really don’t think there is one. Does that make it any better for you? I’m not sure it can… Oh, Gordon…’
He had put his head in his hands, in great distress. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ he said in a low, flat voice. There was nothing Elizabeth could do. In fact, she was so tired now she hardly cared what he was suffering. She needed to sleep. Her tired brain was begi
nning to hear groans, cries of ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ and the sounds of bombardment. She should not have come to Chivering. She should not be cooking herself meals and seeking a bed in the home of Lily’s betrayed husband. She ought at least to have some feelings for him, but it was no good. She thought to herself, it’s too much, I don’t care, I’m having a baby. She stood up. ‘Gordon,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired. I left Calais at half past five last night. I must go to bed. Do you mind?’
He shook his head. ‘Silly of me,’ he mumbled. ‘Didn’t think.’
‘Good night,’ she said.
As she left the room he muttered, ‘I thought they’d take me when conscription came in, but Father fixed it at the War Office.’
Don’t grumble, Gordon, at least you’re alive, thought Elizabeth as she dragged herself upstairs. Through an open door she caught a glimpse of the room which was evidently Gordon’s. The bed was unmade; clothes were scattered everywhere. On the bedside table were unwashed glasses. She opened several doors and eventually found one where pillows and an eiderdown lay on a mattress. She did not quite trust Gordon not to come into her room later, either in search of consolation, or in a drunken rage, having worked up his suspicion that she had incited Lily to leave him. She locked her door. Even as she did so, she thought she heard him moving back into the dining room, back to the decanter. She had left her case downstairs. Too tired to think, she took off her outer clothes, crawled under the eiderdown and went to sleep.
She woke next morning with full sunlight coming through the window. Her watch said eleven o’clock. Her mouth was sour and her body felt like lead. She had to get up and run to the lavatory in her petticoat to vomit. Then she walked along the corridors, searching for Lily’s bedroom. It was clean and tidy, although there were signs that earlier someone, Gordon presumably, had wrecked it. The dressing-table mirror was smashed, and there was a large stain running down one of the walls. One curtain had been dragged down and lay, neatly folded, on the bed. She opened both wardrobes, which were empty.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Who are you?’ said an angry voice behind her. The daily woman, in an apron, her hair screwed up in a tight bun on top of her head, was standing in the doorway, holding a shotgun.
‘For the love of God,’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘Is everybody in this house mad? Turn that gun away.’ She had the advantage of intense irritation, a tall figure and a cultivated accent.
The woman lowered the gun. ‘I heard noises,’ she said disagreeably. ‘What do you expect me to think? You could have been anybody. I suppose you’re a guest.’
‘Yes, and I’d like a cup of tea.’
‘I’m Mrs Holmes. Lord Stillwell didn’t say anything about you.’
‘I came unexpectedly. Where is he?’
The housekeeper studied her dubiously.
‘Where’s Lord Stillwell?’ Elizabeth asked again.
‘Asleep in the dining room,’ the woman told her.
‘Dear, dear,’ Elizabeth said.
‘You may well dear, dear,’ said Mrs Holmes.
‘I’m looking for a dressing gown.’
‘There’s nothing here. He’s given away all her clothes.’
Elizabeth had to sit down suddenly on the bed. ‘Please get my coat,’ she said. ‘It’s downstairs.’
Mrs Holmes paused, then muttered, ‘Very well, madam.’
She came back carrying a cup of tea, Elizabeth’s coat and her suitcase. Her attitude had softened for some reason. Perhaps the sight of Elizabeth’s VAD hat and coat had made her more merciful. ‘I found all this in the dining room. Is it yours?’ She added, ‘Drink the tea. I’ve put plenty of sugar in it. When you’re ready, come to the kitchen and I’ll get you some breakfast.’
Elizabeth ate sausages and fried bread in the kitchen. Gordon, Mrs Holmes reported, was still asleep in the dining room. ‘I don’t disturb him in the mornings,’ she said, as if his passing out over the table were a regular occurrence. ‘If he’s in there I just go in and put a quilt over him, a cushion under his head, make him a bit comfortable. You might be about to tell me, madam, that standards are slipping round here, but what can I do, how can I manage, when there’s only me, and Lord Stillwell in the state he’s in? I ask you, madam – what could anybody do?’ It was obvious she did not want Elizabeth to report adversely on her housekeeping to someone who mattered and might sack her. Elizabeth also thought she might be genuinely concerned about the state of affairs. ‘He could get pneumonia,’ Mrs Holmes said, ‘sleeping all night in a cold room.’
‘Have you told anyone?’
‘I didn’t like to.’
‘I’d better speak to his family,’ Elizabeth said. It would be embarrassing to explain to his father or aunt that Gordon was drifting towards total collapse, but she supposed she ought to.
‘Would you like to order dinner, madam?’ Mrs Holmes asked.
‘I’m leaving today,’ Elizabeth explained. ‘I came to find Lady Stillwell. I thought she’d be here.’
‘I’m afraid she’s not,’ Mrs Holmes said.
‘I must find her,’ Elizabeth said.
‘It would help if you stayed for a little,’ suggested Mrs Holmes.
But Elizabeth could not stay. She had to ask Lily for help, find Constance Albury to see if there was, by chance, any money due her from that source, and try to make plans for the future. Then her only hope, husbandless and pregnant, was to find a bolthole in which to hide herself until the baby was born.
So, at teatime that day, still in her nurse’s uniform, still clutching her small suitcase, she was shown into Lily’s flat in Regent’s Park. A sweep of stairs led up to this magnificent apartment, which was in the middle of the Georgian crescent overlooking the park. There was also a small lift. Lily’s door, on the first floor, was answered by a smart maid, closely followed by Lily’s dog, Fidget. Lily, in a lacy tea gown, her golden hair loose, was drinking tea with two men, one tall and thin, in a black suit with a carnation in the buttonhole, the other big and thick-set, with dark hair. He was extremely handsome, and had a large scar on his temple. The drawing room they sat in was vast. A grand piano stood in one corner, a huge fire burned in a marble fireplace. The bare trees of the park could be seen through the windows. Elizabeth thought, from the casual, proprietorial look of the big man as he leaned back in his chair, that he was the man of the house. He looked intimidating.
Lily jumped up when she came in and rushed towards her, arms outstretched. ‘Elizabeth – I read about Harry. It’s awful – I’m so sorry.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘Sit down, love, and have a cup of tea. You’ll miss Harry. He was a good bloke. Are you on leave, or back for good?’
‘For good,’ Elizabeth said. The thick pile carpet, the flowers in many vases, the warmth of the room were disabling her, somehow. A tide of exhaustion swept over her. She heard Lily ask, ‘So where are you staying?’ and shook her head.
‘You need to be put to bed,’ Lily said. ‘There’s a small room here; you can have it.’
The big, intimidating man was quick enough to jump from his chair in time to catch Elizabeth as she fainted. When she came round, a few moments later, she was lying on a bed and Lily was taking off her stockings. ‘These are in rags,’ she remarked.
‘I’ve never fainted before,’ Elizabeth said weakly.
Lily straightened up. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked meaningfully.
‘If you mean what I think you mean, no, I’m not,’ replied Elizabeth.
‘Ouch,’ Lily winced. ‘Look – get yourself into bed. I’ll get your tea. I’ve got to hurry out in a minute. Mac and I are giving a troop concert in Aldershot, then I’m on at the nightclub later. Mac’s my pianist. I’ll order you up some supper before I go.’ She was off in a flash, returning with some tea and a huge lump of chocolate cake. She had put on a large green hat and was wearing a grey fur coat. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Ring for anything you want.’ Lily blew a kiss and left. Elizabeth slept.
It was a cheerful,
if unconventional household. Billy Webber, the big, dark, powerful man, was not part of it, though he was often there. ‘He doesn’t pay the rent, either,’ Lily said pointedly. ‘Never let a man pay your rent, that’s my motto. Especially as he’s my boss. He’s married, in fact, married an East End girl when he was a lad, now he just keeps his marriage going for form’s sake. Got to respect your missus, you know how it is in the East End. She lives in luxury in a big house in the suburbs, and he never goes home. He’s put Mac in here to keep an eye on me. Also, because I go mad if I have to live alone. But it’s nice to have another woman about.’
Mac was a ragtime pianist from America, who had, it seemed, learned the art of life as a homeless boy, riding the rails from state to state, and his piano-playing from brothel pianists from New Orleans to Detroit. In addition to the piano, he could play the mouth organ and the guitar. He and Lily left each day, Mac in a dinner jacket and black tie, for their date with a white grand piano at Billy Webber’s nightclub, the smartest in London.
The odd trio – Mac, Elizabeth and Lily – lived in style, mostly at Lily’s expense. ‘I can’t stand being on my own,’ she told Elizabeth when she protested. ‘I’d never been on my own, night or day, until that rotten bastard Finlay – rest his soul – tricked me with my sister. When I found myself alone in a hotel, for months, I nearly went potty. You’re doing me a favour, Elizabeth, I promise you.’
‘You’ve got Mac,’ Elizabeth pointed out.
Elizabeth and Lily Page 42
