Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Also February, I think. I’m a bit hazy. I’m having it in a nursing home near Shaftesbury. Rather scared, if you want to know – I’m not brave like you.’

  ‘Oh piffle,’ said Clarissa. ‘Nothing brave about me. Well, darling, have a wonderful Christmas.’

  ‘Not much chance of that. Grace’s dreary parents are coming, and her, and of course Mother’s had to ask the refugees as she calls them.’

  ‘I thought they were sweet.’

  ‘They are, but Mother treats them as if they had some kind of obscene disease and didn’t speak English, only addresses them through Grace.’

  ‘Sounds grim. Well, apart from the time your papa’s with us, we’re going to spend the whole of Christmas in bed.’

  ‘Oh you’re so lucky,’ said Florence.

  ‘This is very good of you,’ said Clifford. ‘Very good of you indeed. When you could be alone together.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ said Clarissa. ‘Four glorious days left yet. Anyway, we were getting sick of the sight of each other, weren’t we, Jack darling?’

  Jack nodded sleepily. He had had a great deal of the very good brandy Clarissa had managed to wheedle out of the manager of the wine department at Harrods. He hadn’t really changed a lot, Clifford thought, for a man who had looked death in the face several times a day; he had lost some weight, and his matinée idol looks, the perfectly sculpted nose, the fine jaw, were slightly sharper, more clearly defined, but that was, if anything, an improvement, and he was just as funny, just as charming, full of funny, often outrageous stories. He and Clarissa clearly had a great deal of difficulty keeping their hands off one another; even now, she had her arm linked through his, her lovely head on his shoulder. They were the most ravishing couple, he thought, too good to be true, and had assumed a strange glamour as well, the glamour of survival, of triumph in wartime. Please God it would last for them at least. He wondered how Charles was faring; he heard only from Grace that he was safe and well, surviving the heat, the considerable traumas of life in Tunisia, but cheerful.

  Christmas was a painful time for separated families – and separated lovers. Clifford wrenched his mind determinedly from his loneliness and smiled at Clarissa and Jack.

  ‘Well, I think I’ll turn in. The old bones are feeling it a bit. Bless you both for a wonderful day. I’ll see you first thing, will I? Then I must be off. Perhaps I could take what’s left of that excellent whisky up with me. Nightcap, you know.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Clarissa, ‘whatever you like. I’ll come down and make you breakfast in the morning.’

  They were not arguing with the fiction that Clifford had a great deal to do on Boxing Day. He needed it, for his self-respect, and they needed more time together …

  ‘For love and love and more love,’ said Clarissa, throwing herself rapturously back onto the pillows. ‘Jack, you are stupendously, wonderfully, miraculously brilliant in bed. And out of it,’ she added, tracing the shape of his profile with her finger, smiling as she reached his mouth and he nibbled it. ‘I’m so lucky, so terribly, terribly lucky to have you. To have found you. Supposing I hadn’t, supposing we hadn’t known each other, think what we would have missed—’

  ‘Well, you did find me,’ said Jack, turning, looking at her very seriously, ‘and now you’ve got me. For ever and ever.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Clarissa quickly. ‘Bad Luck.’

  ‘Clarissa my darling, if I can come through the Battle of Britain, I can come through anything. I keep telling you, charmed life I’ve got. No, the only thing that’s going to come between us is some bloody tall, dark and handsome naval commander.’

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous,’ said Clarissa.

  Chapter 13

  Winter–Spring 1941

  ‘I really find this very hard to believe,’ said Mrs Lacey. She looked severely at Grace. ‘These girls do – well, embroider things rather, you know.’

  Grace sighed, started to count up to ten, got to six and lost her temper.

  ‘Mrs Lacey, this is not embroidery. I went to the farm and saw it myself. They are sleeping in the barn, in the barn, well, all right, in the hayloft, and they don’t have enough blankets, and they don’t have any sheets. It’s horrible for them. And if they want to go to the lavatory in the night they have to go outside. It’s appalling. Some thing has to be done.’

  Mrs Lacey was on the West Thorne county branch of the committee; she reminded Grace of Muriel in her blind refusal to accept the word of anyone born outside her own social class, unless it was to express gratitude or some other such suitable emotion. It was that very fact that gave Grace courage now.

  ‘Well, I really don’t know what to think. These farmers are having a very difficult time, I don’t feel it is for us to tell them how to do their job—’

  ‘Mrs Lacey, we’re not telling them how to do their job. And if they’re having a difficult time, which I slightly doubt, they’re making more money than they ever dreamed of with all these subsidies. They need the girls to help them, and therefore they ought to be nice to them. Now what are we going to do?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Lacey, ‘I suppose I could suggest they move to a hostel. Although I can’t imagine where.’

  ‘I don’t think that would matter. If you told him why you were thinking of moving them, I think he’d improve his treatment of them pretty quickly. So will you do that, Mrs Lacey? Please?’

  ‘Yes, very well. I’ll write to him. What’s his name?’

  ‘Mr Drummond. Here’s the address.’

  ‘Any other – complaints?’

  ‘No, well, nothing serious, only things like long hours. But the girls have to expect that. And there’s some silly girl over at Westhorne who can’t get the hang of milking, but I told the farmer to put her onto an older cow to practise on, that nearly always works. Dear old things they are, at every farm, they just stand there and sort of help.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Lacey, clearly having no interest in cows, helpful or otherwise. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve only been able to make bicycle calls recently. I really need to get further over in the Wells direction. Could I have some petrol coupons please? I haven’t had any at all since I started.’

  Mrs Lacey looked at Grace as if she was asking for a fur coat or several pounds of butter, and rather reluctantly reached in her drawer for the coupons. ‘Please don’t waste any,’ she said, ‘any at all.’

  ‘No, Mrs Lacey. I won’t.’

  What did the old bat think she was going to do with it, Grace wondered, drink it?

  She was feeling, she realized as she drove slowly home, very much happier. She was still lonely, still constantly worried about Charles, still hurt, when she thought about it, by her lack of friends, but things had improved. She loved the Land Army work, loved hearing the girls’ stories, the funny ones, about farmers getting fresh, about the one who had tried to take a crop to one of them and she had seized it and turned it on him instead, even enjoyed, perversely, comforting the girls who were homesick – and some of them were very homesick, and physically quite unsuited to the unremittingly hard work they had to do. They had been lured to the country, in preference to factory work, with a vision of collecting eggs and raking up a little hay and found themselves planting potatoes, mucking out pigs and lifting endless rows of sprouts in the freezing rain and sleet. Grace felt at least she had a purpose in life; a function beyond feeding herself and keeping her house tidy.

  The little boys were a joy; she loved them both with a fierceness that quite worried her at times. She supposed it was because she had nothing else to love, apart from Charlotte. There were problems, of course, the bed-wetting hadn’t improved, Daniel hated school and was constantly in trouble, fighting the other boys who took the mickey out of his London accent – in spite of his small size he was very swift with his fists – cheeking nice Miss Merton largely out of defensiveness, and he couldn’t get the hang of his tables which led to further raggi
ng on the grounds of his stupidity. David felt bound to try to defend him, and got into trouble for fighting boys younger than he was; he was very clever and got teased for being a swot. On the other hand, the other children tended to like him and when he was made book monitor nobody resented it, Miss Merton told Grace. ‘And he likes music, doesn’t he? I caught him playing the piano really nicely the other day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘I’ve been giving him lessons.’

  ‘You play the piano, Mrs Bennett?’ asked Miss Merton.

  ‘Yes. Yes I do.’

  ‘Well now,’ said Miss Merton, ‘I’m thinking of starting dancing lessons. I studied dancing at college. It was my subject. I wanted to be a dancer only I got too tall.’

  Not just too tall, thought Grace, trying not to conjure up too vivid a picture of Miss Merton’s thirteen stone dancing.

  ‘Only I can’t do both, dance and play. You wouldn’t like to play for me one afternoon a week, would you?’

  ‘Oh I’d love to,’ said Grace, ‘I’d really love it. Thank you.’

  The dancing lessons took place on Wednesday afternoons: mostly skipping about, but Miss Merton was also teaching the children the rudiments of ballroom dancing, and had told any girls who were interested she would like to start them on ballet. ‘And boys, if they want to,’ she said, her round, apple-rosy face slightly roguish. Miss Merton doing a vigorous grand battement, her huge bottom aquiver, her elasticated knickers briefly but rhythmically on view, brought the boys flocking into the ballet classes; but the novelty soon wore off and they departed again.

  Muriel, who had been very dismissive about the Land Army work, and told Grace the girls were bound to be ignorant and idle and best left to the farmers to sort out, was graciously approving of the piano-playing. ‘So good of you,’ she said, ‘to try and bring a little culture into these people’s lives.’

  As the nearest Muriel came to culture herself was listening to the Palm Court Orchestra on the wireless on Sunday evening, Grace found this particularly ironic, but she smiled sweetly at her mother-in-law and stayed silent.

  ‘Well now,’ said Mrs Merrow, the midwife, putting away the trumpet which she had been holding to Florence’s stomach. ‘Well now, baby’s doing very nice. Lovely strong heartbeat, wouldn’t mind betting that’s a boy in there.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Florence.

  ‘Head’s not engaged, but that’s not unusual, not with a first baby. But he’s lying the right way, so you shouldn’t have any problems at all.’ She smiled at Florence. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Well – no. Not really. That is – well, how much longer do you think?’

  ‘Oh, I should think at least six weeks. That was the date we worked out, wasn’t it? He might come earlier, he’s quite a big chap, but it’s very unusual for a first baby. More likely late, I’m afraid.’ She patted Florence’s stomach tenderly, beamed at her.

  Florence looked down at it, at her big chap. It terrified her to think of how big he was, and the extremely small area he had to get through; it hardly seemed possible indeed. She was, now it was so near, very frightened.

  ‘And – how will I know? When it’s started?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll know all right,’ said Mrs Merrow, laughing. ‘No doubt about that. Of course you might get your waters breaking, that’ll happen in the greengrocer’s or in church, somewhere really convenient, or a show, now that’s a spot of blood. But most likely you’ll get the pains starting.’

  ‘Oh – yes,’ said Florence, ‘the pains. Um – Mrs Merrow, will I be able to have anything for the pains?’

  ‘Yes, if you want to,’ said Mrs Merrow. ‘Gas and air. Wonderful stuff it is, carries you right off and over it. Don’t you worry about the pains, Mrs Grieg. And I’ll be here, if I possibly can, or Mrs Foster, you know her, and Doctor of course. You’re worried, aren’t you?’ she added kindly.

  ‘Well, perhaps a bit,’ said Florence.

  ‘Quite natural you should be. But it’ll be all right. And when he’s here, in your arms, it’ll all be worth it. Believe me.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Florence, ‘yes, I’m sure it will.’

  She found it just a little hard to believe at the moment.

  Mr Jacobs, the only remaining senior partner at Bennett & Bennett, had asked Muriel and Grace to go and see him in Shaftesbury. He said he had something slightly complex to discuss with them. Grace followed Muriel into Mr Jacobs’s rather grand office, feeling a little nervous.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Jacobs,’ said Muriel graciously. ‘I hope this isn’t going to take too long, I’m extremely busy. As you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mr Jacobs, who could not possibly have known whether Muriel was busy or not. ‘I’m sorry to take up your time. Very sorry. But – well –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it’s about the firm. You see.’

  ‘I didn’t expect it to be about the conduct of the war,’ said Muriel. Grace began to feel very sorry for Mr Jacobs. She smiled at him encouragingly.

  ‘As you know, in your husband’s absence – in both your husbands’ absence –’ he cleared his throat again.

  ‘Mr Jacobs, please come to the point.’

  ‘In their absence,’ said Mr Jacobs in a rush, clearly finding a reserve of courage, ‘I have been running the firm. With some difficulty, I might add.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Muriel, ‘but there is a war on, and we all have difficulties, Mr Jacobs.’

  ‘Of course. Well now, clients have been few and far between lately. Very little conveyancing, naturally, little financial work – our income has dropped considerably.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Muriel. Her face was very tense.

  ‘Yes. And I’m afraid – well, I’m afraid the drawings made in your favour, both of your favours, lately, have been a considerable drain on the firm.’

  ‘That is very unfortunate,’ said Muriel, ‘but I fail to see what we can do about it.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, Mrs Bennett, the thing is—’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jacobs—’

  ‘The – the standing orders can no longer be met. Well, not in such large measure anyway.’

  Grace suddenly felt rather sick. The one thing she had never thought about, since Charles went away, was money; it had flowed towards her in a warm, constant supply, seeing to her needs, paying for her food, her clothes, her light and heating, Mrs Babbage, the daily woman, Mr Blackstone the gardener –

  ‘By how much?’ Muriel was saying.

  ‘Well, Mrs Bennett, I would say by fifty per cent. Er – each.’

  ‘Fifty per cent!’ said Muriel. ‘I’m afraid that is quite out of the question. Speaking for myself that is. My daughter-in-law may well, of course, be able to manage on less. But I can’t. I have my daughter at home, and shortly my grandchild to support. I do assure you, Mr Jacobs, you will have to go away and think of something else to keep Bennett and Bennett solvent. Now, if you will excuse me, as I told you, I am extremely busy.’

  ‘But – Mrs Bennett, I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that,’ said Mr Jacobs, clearly drawing courage and strength from her attitude. ‘There simply is not the money. Whatever I – we do. The income from the firm is almost at zero. Were I not retiring myself within the year I would be extremely worried. But I have my pension and—’

  ‘I don’t think we want to hear about your arrangements,’ said Muriel, ‘and surely my husband has a pension fund. We – I – can draw on that presumably.’

  ‘You can, of course, Mrs Bennett, but it is a much smaller sum again than perhaps you realize. And naturally it is outside my jurisdiction. You will have to arrange it with him.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is quite out of the question,’ said Muriel. ‘I repeat, Mr Jacobs, you will have to come up with some other proposal. And now if you will excuse us—’

  Mr Jacobs stood up and looked helplessly at Grace. She smiled at him.

  In the reception area, waiting for Muriel to emerge from the ladies, she said,
‘I’m sorry about my – about Mrs Bennett. She doesn’t quite understand the real world. Let me have a think about it, perhaps talk to my father-in-law. Have you—’

  ‘I have tried, Mrs Bennett. He has promised to give the matter some thought. But I found him a little – what shall I say? – detached.’

  That was odd, Grace thought, unlike Clifford; he was so unde tached, so anxious to look after everyone. She would ring him, have a chat with him.

  She couldn’t help feeling, as Muriel so plainly did, that there must be some mistake.

  ‘Clifford? Clifford, it’s Grace.’

  ‘Grace! Hallo, my dear, how are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you. And you?’

  ‘Oh – you know. Getting a little older these days. London is not very peaceful. But I do go to a lot of concerts, Grace darling, there is a simply wonderful choice, you’d be surprised, so that keeps me pretty busy, and I read a lot and—’

  ‘Clifford, I hate to – well, to bother you, but we saw Mr Jacobs this morning. He said that – that there was a – a money problem. The company is in trouble. Well, not trouble, but not making any money.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he told me. Clients all gone away. Well, it’s hardly surprising.’

  That was funny; not the kind of reaction she’d have expected. ‘Yes, but Clifford, you see, there isn’t enough money for Muriel. Or for me, but that doesn’t matter so much. I expect I can sort something out. But she’s – well, she needs money of course and she has Florence here and the baby soon—’

  ‘Yes, the baby. When exactly is it due? Is Florence all right?’

  ‘She’s fine. It’s due next month, I think. But they do need money and I wondered if – what you thought we should do about it.’

  ‘Well, my darling, I don’t know. I really don’t.’

  ‘What about the London partnership?’

  ‘What? Oh, not a lot here, I’m afraid. At any rate not for me. Very small fish in this particular pond now. I’m lucky to be able to use the flat. Times are quite difficult. Well, you know that of course.’