Neither of them heard the telephone ringing interminably, on and on, in the hall two storeys below.
Grace woke up feeling sick. She could hardly believe it. Definitely, and quite nastily sick. It had happened then: she had managed it, she was pregnant.
How wonderful. She could hardly believe it: a baby. Someone of her very own – well, and Charles’s of course – to love and care for; to cure her loneliness, to give her life a focus. She eased herself rather carefully out of bed, and went to the lavatory, doing sums on her fingers. July the third today. Charles had gone back on 15 June, that meant it would be born in March. A spring baby. He – or she, but she felt sure it would be he – could lie in the pram under the apple tree all through the summer, rosily brown; she could take him for walks down the lanes, Charlotte lolloping ahead of them, in the big pram, her big pram, the one her mother was always hinting about having kept for her. It was perfect.
She wondered where she would have him: at home she supposed. It must be much nicer to have your baby at home, not in some strange hospital or nursing home. And then she could have her mother there, with her. Her mother! When could she tell her? Perhaps not just yet, probably not until she’d been to the doctor, Betty would get so excited. And it was a bit soon, actually, to go to the doctor, her period was only – what? – three or four days late at the most. She was a bit surprised that she felt sick so early on, but all the books she had been reading told her that every pregnancy was different. Oh, if only she could tell Charles; maybe she could, maybe she should. He hadn’t gone yet, was still based, in an agony of frustration, somewhere on the south coast. In fact he’d said he might get one more short leave before he went. He phoned her quite often; maybe if he did, in the next few days, she would tell him. On the other hand he’d be so excited – once he’d got over the shock of course, she’d have to be very careful about stressing that it had been a complete accident – and probably, as with her mother, it would be better to wait until she’d seen the doctor before telling him.
Goodness, it wasn’t very nice, this sickness; she stood up and thought for a moment she was actually going to be sick. She wasn’t, but she decided to go and lie down for a while longer, before she went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. She had a driving lesson this morning; she would cancel that. You had to be very careful anyway, when you were first pregnant, keep quiet, not rush about. She was glad now she hadn’t joined the ATS or the WRNS. It wouldn’t have done, she’d have only had to let them down, leave again. She looked down at her body, at her neat flatness, patted her stomach tenderly, thinking of the wonders that were being worked within it; and then went back into the bedroom, opened the curtains and lay watching the birds wheeling in the blue sky, listening to the millstream and thinking about names. She thought she had never been so happy, in her whole life. Even though Charles was away.
‘Ben’s leave’s been bloody cancelled,’ said Linda. She was almost in tears. ‘He won’t be home till I don’t know when.’
‘Well, there’s a war on,’ said Nan. ‘What do you expect? And don’t swear. The British Army isn’t run around you, my girl. That’s what it was like last time, only much worse. Harold only came home three times the whole of the war. Ben’s always going back wards and forwards. Like a holiday camp it seems to me. You ought to be grateful. It’ll get worse of course—’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Linda, unable to control herself any longer. ‘Just shut up, will you? I’ve been looking forward to him coming so much, I’m so disappointed, and all you can do is tell me I should be grateful.’
‘Yes, well, there you are,’ said Nan, ‘that’s what comes of starting it all over again. And don’t speak to me like that, Linda, if you please. I don’t know what Ben would say if—’
Linda walked out, slammed the door. If she hadn’t, she knew she would have hit her mother-in-law. Stupid old bag.
She looked at her watch: only twelve o’clock. The boys wouldn’t be home for hours. She knew what she was going to do. Sign on at the factory, that was what. And if Nan didn’t like it, she’d tell her where to get off. She had to do something with her life. She was only twenty-five after all.
‘Mrs Compton Brown!’
The two girls sitting next to Clarissa at the YMCA nudged each other, watched as she got up and walked through the door for her interview. They had been studying her for the past hour, her clothes (red and white silk dress, white gloves and shoes, red hat), her blonde hair, freshly set, her long nails, brilliantly red, her make-up, carefully applied, her reading matter (Vogue), her voice, oh most especially her voice; their eyes had met at the sound of that voice, their lips twitched. But that was what finally did it, hearing her name: Compton Brown. That settled it, branded her as spoilt, useless, stuck-up, joining the forces to make herself feel better, do a bit of slumming, see how the other half lived.
If Mrs Compton Brown and the two of them should just happen to find themselves in the same place, May Potter and Sandra Hardy thought, as an eighteen-year-old girl, they wouldn’t half give her a hard time. She’d soon learn what real life was about. They’d see to that. Women like Mrs Compton Brown needed taking down a peg or two.
Had they known that Flight Lieutenant Compton Brown was just directing his small, hideously vulnerable plane into the skies for the fourth time since daybreak in the defence of his King and Country and had already seen two of his greatest friends and comrades shot down in flames, and that Mrs Compton Brown, beneath her gracious voice and dazzling smile, was eaten up with a dreadful, fear-filled grief, they might have felt just a little less hostile.
But only a little.
‘Oh Clifford,’ said Michael Whyte, QC, looking at his lifetime’s friend affectionately across the dark leathery recesses of the dining room at the Reform Club. ‘You really do look a shadow of yourself. The bachelor life obviously doesn’t suit you.’
‘Not too well,’ said Clifford with a sigh, ‘but it’s my own fault.’
‘Never a very comforting thought,’ said Whyte. ‘The – well, well, the lady in question, has she faded out of your life?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Clifford. ‘Who could blame her? Actresses, especially young struggling actresses, need to keep the kind of company that will further their careers. Not old-fashioned, fuddy-duddy lawyers who are very well past their prime. No, I was a mere passing whim for Mary Saunders, I’m afraid, although she was very good to me the night of my heart attack. But I think once she realized I wasn’t going to actually set her up in her own establishment in London, there really wasn’t much point hanging around.’
‘Was that what she was hoping for then?’ asked Michael Whyte in amusement.
‘Oh yes. But you know, you have to be pretty fond of someone to make that kind of investment. To be a genuine bona fide sugar daddy. I wasn’t quite that enamoured of Miss Saunders. And events have proved me right.’
‘So what then?’ said Whyte, embarking on the somewhat tortuous routine of lighting a cigar. ‘Home again, tail between your legs?’
‘I fear not,’ said Clifford. ‘However deeply it was thrust between them, my tail and my legs would not be welcome at the Priory. Muriel does not have a forgiving nature. No, I have to stick it out here while I think of something else to do.’
‘What about work?’
‘Well, virtually retired of course. I have a few clients up here. And I’m lucky I can use the flat. But I can’t stay there for ever. However, it’s not all bad,’ he said with his sudden sweet smile. ‘I get to lots of concerts, I can listen to the radio whenever I want to, eat irregular meals—’
‘Not too irregular I hope,’ said Whyte. ‘Coronary patients should look after themselves.’
‘No, no, of course not. But a little smoked salmon at midnight plus champagne, after a visit to the Albert Hall, is very pleasant.’
‘Hmm,’ said Michael Whyte. He did not look entirely convinced. ‘What about your daughter? She is in London surely, can’t you spend some time with her
?’
‘She is indeed,’ said Clifford with a sigh, ‘but I fear she views me in the same dark light that her mother does. It is a source of great grief to me, that. I fancy we could comfort one another very well.’
‘Why does she need comforting?’
‘Her marriage is not all it should be. At least that is my suspicion.’
‘Few marriages are,’ said Michael Whyte.
‘Sadly true. But for Florence – I pray I may be wrong and I have no real grounds for thinking so, she denies it utterly, but I somehow fear there is – well, a danger of violence.’
Grace was half asleep in the garden when she realized Charlotte was missing; she had become so good, and was so devoted to Grace, always lying at her side wherever she was, in the house or outside, that she had become rather careless about keeping an eye on the dog. She sat up in her deck chair and called her, waiting for, confident of, the rustle in the bushes, the splashing in the stream that meant Charlotte was coming. She called again and whistled, stood up slightly reluctantly – it had been so warm, so peaceful, and she had been planning the nursery in her head – looking just slightly anxiously now for the russet-coloured shadow moving towards her. No Charlotte. Perhaps she was in the house, maybe it had been too hot for her; but she was not, not in the kitchen by the Aga, not in her favourite afternoon place, the puddle of afternoon sunlight that fell on the drawing-room floor by the French windows, not even on Grace’s bed.
A slight knot began to gather in Grace’s stomach. Charlotte was very young, much too young really to be relied upon to stay where she was supposed to be; she could easily have spotted a rabbit and gone bolting off after it, through the fence, across the fields. She had done that a few times, but had always come back.
Grace went down to the far fence and called her again, repeatedly, with slightly less hope now; then, when Charlotte still did not come, went to the front gate which, though shut, a puppy, even quite a big one, could still crawl under, and peered fearfully down the lane. Of course she was most unlikely to have been run over – of course she was – there was very little traffic about, and everyone knew her anyway, somebody would have phoned and told her. She would be fine. Only – did she have her collar on, Grace wondered, with the name tag and the telephone number, or did she not? Grace always took it off when Charlotte settled for the night, because the puppy still didn’t really like it, and put it on again when it was time for her walk; only she hadn’t walked her today, because of feeling so sick – she still didn’t feel very well – so she was rather afraid it would be – yes, it was, in the kitchen table drawer.
Grace stood staring at it, panic rising in her throat now, thinking of her foolishly, dangerously curious puppy, thinking of her on the road, in pursuit of something, a rabbit, a cat, a car coming round a corner, a lorry – oh God, how could she have done it, gone to sleep, not seen she was safe, Charlotte, whom she loved so much. She was dead, no doubt, crushed beneath an army lorry, her bright, loving light put out permanently, and it served her right, Grace thought, standing there, breathing rather fast, trying not to panic, it served her jolly well right, and now—
The phone rang sharply; she rushed to it.
‘Mrs Bennett?’
‘Yes. Yes, this is Mrs Bennett.’
‘Police station here, Mrs Bennett. Constable Johnson. At Thorpe Magna. We’ve got your dog here, at least Miss Parker from the post office says it’s your dog. Picked her up in the road, brought her in.’
‘Oh thank goodness,’ said Grace, her legs shaky with relief, ‘thank you so much. I’ve been looking for her everywhere, I’m so sorry she got out—’
‘Pity she didn’t have a collar on,’ said Constable Johnson. ‘She should, you know, Mrs Bennett.’
‘I know. I do know. I’m so sorry, I took it off you see to—’
‘No use to her off, is it? Anyway, the thing is, Mrs Bennett, she’s hurt.’
‘Hurt? How?’
‘Well, she got hit by a car, I’m afraid. Now it’s not serious, at least I don’t think so, but her leg’s hanging awkward. Broken possibly. Can you come and get her please?’
‘I – I can’t,’ said Grace. ‘Not really. You see I can’t – that is I haven’t got a car.’ God, she must learn to drive properly, she really must, she’d need to more than ever now, now she was going to be a mother.
‘Well, I don’t know what to suggest,’ said Constable Johnson. ‘We haven’t got petrol to waste on a dog, or personnel come to that, specially with half our force gone.’
‘Gone?’ said Grace stupidly. She had a sudden vision of half the Thorpe Magna police force – which amounted to only one other man – run away, or even in the churchyard.
‘Yes, Mrs Bennett. Joined up. In the Somersets he is. And I’m in the Home Guard,’ he added as if that were deeply relevant to the problem of getting Charlotte back. ‘So—’
‘Look,’ said Grace, ‘I’ll ring the vet and see if he can come.’ She felt terrible at the thought of Charlotte lying in pain, untended, as a result of her irresponsibility. ‘I’ll ring you back, Sergeant.’
‘All right,’ said Constable Johnson, clearly soothed by this piece of instant promotion. ‘I’ll look after her for now.’
John Roberts, the vet, was busy: ‘He’s out at Haywards, delivering a calf, Mrs Bennett, and then he’s got three more calls. I’ll see what I can do, but I really can’t imagine that—’
The vet’s wife, whose name was Audrey, made it clear that an injured puppy would come very low on any list of veterinary priorities; Grace had met her once when she had taken Charlotte for her inoculations, a leathery-faced woman who looked much older than her permanently harassed husband.
‘Oh, well, look, don’t worry him. I’ll think of something else. Thanks anyway. If I bring her round later, would he have a look at her leg?’
‘Possibly,’ said Audrey Roberts grudgingly.
There was only one thing for it, Grace thought: she would have to take the car herself. Muriel was away, staying with a friend in Cornwall, so she couldn’t ask her; for which she was actually, even in her distress, grateful. She would have had to listen to an endless lecture about the folly of having a setter rather than a labrador, of not keeping her kennelled, of not training her properly. She would just drive the two and a half miles into Thorpe Magna, collect Charlotte and take her to the vet. The thought made her feel very frightened, but she couldn’t leave Charlotte lying injured at the police station indefinitely. Charles had given her quite a few driving lessons after all now, she knew what to do; and there was certainly enough petrol in the car. If she was very, very careful she would be perfectly all right. If only, if only she didn’t feel so sick. And it wasn’t so hot.
The whole thing served her right; if she’d looked after Charlotte properly none of it would have happened.
The car – the thought of how angry Charles would have been if he had known she was driving his precious car like this, and for such a reason, made her feel even sicker – was not in the garage, merci fully, but in the drive, and facing the right way. She was perfectly competent at actually driving now, her father had said so, it was only parking and reversing that was difficult. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t have to do either.
Grace picked up the phone and told Mrs Boscombe she was going out and would be at least an hour – better to be on the safe side should Charles phone – and then took a deep breath, went out into the drive and got into the car. She remembered to do all the right things, checked the mirror, put it into neutral – she wished the gears were easier to change – then gingerly turned the key. The car started easily, and she managed to move it into first gear, inched it cautiously out of the drive. There was nothing coming; she took a deep breath, put her foot down a little further, let in the clutch with only a couple of rocking lurches – at least it didn’t stall – and pulled out smoothly and in a mood of immense triumph into the lane.
It was easy. Really easy. The car moved along – slowly, but that
didn’t matter; after a few minutes she moved up into second gear. She was dimly aware of a car coming towards her, hooting companion ably, then going past. It clearly saw her simply as another driver: just somebody he had passed in the lane, rather than some lethal incompetent. Grace smiled to herself, gingerly tried to get into third; that defeated her. But second was fine. It was going to take a bit of a while, but it didn’t matter. She had already reached the furthest outskirts of Lower Thorpe: Magna was only two miles away now. She would make it easily. This was fun: real fun. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much for ages.
The only really bad moment was when she passed the Priory. She was so afraid that Muriel might have come home unexpectedly, could come out and see her, that she put her foot right down and shot forward and round the corner much too fast; she only just managed to avoid the postbox. But she did. And now there was just about half a mile to go, through the village, but it was mid-after noon, everything was peaceful, and she’d have done it. There was the police station now. In sight. With the beloved Charlotte inside. She’d done it. She’d done it! She knew exactly how Lindbergh must have felt after he’d flown the Atlantic.
‘Thought you hadn’t got a car,’ said Constable Johnson.
‘Oh – well – I borrowed one,’ said Grace. ‘Thank you. How is Char – the puppy?’
‘She’s not too bad,’ said Constable Johnson, ‘I’ve got her in the cells.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Grace.
A pitiful whining came from ‘the cells’, which was the small square lock-up room with a barred window which served the rather light duties of criminal detention in Thorpe Magna (although the much-mooted possibility of the arrival of alarge number of spies had made everyone nervous and had ensured at least another lock on the door). Grace went in, fell on her knees beside the box in which Constable Johnson had placed first a blanket and then Charlotte. Charlotte looked up at her, stopped whining immediately and tried to get out of the box. She yelped, and sank back again.
Forbidden Places Page 17
