‘Yes. Yes, I see. Clifford, are you really all right?’ His vague, distracted state seemed to her more worrying than the financial one.
‘Oh, good gracious yes. Of course I am. Don’t you worry about me.’
‘No, of course not. Well – goodbye, Clifford. You are looking after yourself, aren’t you? Eating properly and everything?’
‘Of course I am. I’m absolutely tickety-boo. Now you take care of yourself, darling, won’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes of course. And you.’
‘You’re not entirely with me, are you?’ said Jack.
They were lying in bed in a rather seedy hotel in Kent; he had a forty-eight-hour leave and Clarissa had been allowed to join him for twenty-four of them.
She had looked forward to it so much, longed to be with him, longed to hold him, have him with her, safe, warm, loving; and yet something was wrong. And it wasn’t with him, it was with her. She felt odd, distanced from him: loving him as she did, as much as ever, but somehow less concerned, less unquestioningly committed to him. The sex had been wonderful, as always; almost better, there was a toughness, a near desperation in Jack these days that lent an edge to the pleasure, gave it a fierce, raw sensation that was almost painful in its intensity. It had been beforehand, as they ate an indigestible dinner (tough stew, followed by watery trifle), and he talked and she found for the very first time that it was just slightly hard to concentrate, to give him her one hundred per cent attention. And now, afterwards, when he wanted simply to hold her, to be with her, and her mind, usually so rapturously blank of everything but him, what she felt for and with him, what he had done for her, and she for him, that mind was wandering, straying fretfully towards what she had left behind: to two new arrivals placed in her care, homesick and lonely, abandoned in her absence to May’s rather brisker attentions; to a bike she knew she should have sent for maintenance and had not done so in her hurry to get away; to a difficult assignment the next day; and a clear need to be back in Portsmouth on duty by 9 a.m. and a gnawing knowledge that she needed a very strong following wind to be able to accomplish that.
‘Sorry,’ she said, kissing him carefully, quickly, resettling herself against him, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Oh – you know.’
‘No,’ he said, and his voice was edgy, ‘no I don’t. Actually.’
‘Well – you ought to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you must surely be thinking of other things too. Other than me, I mean.’
‘Actually, Clarissa,’ he said and there was a real edge to his voice suddenly, ‘I’m not. In spite of everything, all I’ve been through, I’m not.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘And I don’t like it that you are.’
‘Well I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘but—’
‘But what?’
‘Oh, it’s not even worth talking about. Jack, this is silly.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see it as silly,’ he said. ‘I see it as lots of things, inevitable perhaps, unfortunate certainly, and very sad. But not silly. I wouldn’t have thought anything that threatened our relationship was silly.’
‘Jack, really,’ she said, smiling into his eyes, kissing him, trying to make light of it, ‘you’re being absurd. I’m not threatening our relationship. I’m just a bit worried about a few things. That’s all.’
‘What things?’ he said. He sat up, reached for his cigarettes, offered her one.
She shook her head. ‘Oh, just Wren business.’
‘Very important,’ he said, ‘Wren business. I can see that. What is it you’re doing at the moment, Clarissa? Delivering messages still, all over the countryside?’
‘Yes,’ she said, misreading his mood, anxious that he should understand, ‘and tomorrow I have to—’
‘I really don’t want to know,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette, turning away from her. ‘Tomorrow I have to get back in my plane and train yet more little boys to go out and get killed. And if I can stop thinking about that, Clarissa, I would have thought you could forget about your ridiculous messenger service.’
‘Jack, please, don’t, don’t talk like that,’ she said, shocked and shaken as always when he forced her to confront (as he seldom did) what he had to endure, live with day by day. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘I know what you meant,’ he said, ‘and I don’t care for it. I’m going to sleep now. I’m incredibly tired. Goodnight.’
Later he relented, turned to her, made love to her again, gently, tenderly this time, asked her to forgive him for his outburst, and she asked him to forgive her for her distraction. But she lay sleepless the rest of the night, shocked not only at the changes that were taking place between them but at the equally great ones within herself, and her inability to stop any of it. And there was something else too: a lack of willingness even to try.
She liked the new Clarissa and she liked the new Clarissa’s life, even if it was hard on Jack; it seemed to have a lot more to it than the old one.
My dear Grace,
First of all, some reassurances, which I imagine will be welcome. I am alive and extremely well. We are in Egypt. We are living in tolerably comfortable conditions, although it is of course rather warm (bit of British understatement there), under the excellent command of Wavell. Morale is high and I have a fine bunch of men, and my fellow officers are an excel lent bunch. Of course it is tedious at times, nerve-racking at others (more understatement), and we don’t know quite what will happen next (!) but I feel quite confident that we are a winning part of a winning team, and that we have, in Mr Churchill’s own words, seen at least the end of the beginning.
I am enjoying soldiering very much; far more than I expected. The sense of comradeship, of striving for a shared goal, unquestioningly, in spite of hardship, danger and fear, is a fine thing. This might be hard, not unnaturally, for you to understand, but I can only assure you that many of us have the same feelings. Anyway, your husband is in fine fettle!
I hope you are well, darling, and not missing me too much. It is a constant comfort to me, as I have told you so many times, to think of you safely over there, keeping the home fires burning! Which brings me to the second point of my letter. Mother tells me you have taken in some evacuees. She feels this is wrong, and I have to tell you that I do agree with her. You should not have done it without consultation with me, and I dislike the thought of strangers, however young and possibly in need they may be, living in my house. Of course you feel you are acting for the best, and it is very sweet of you to want to contribute to the war effort, but I must ask you to find something else to do. If I come home on leave suddenly (unlikely but possible) I do not want to have to share my home with two ragamuffins from the East End! I am sure they are very nice boys, although one hears appalling stories about these children and their behaviour, lack of morals, etc, but it is just not right that they should be there against my wishes. Could you therefore please make arrangements as soon as possible for them to be moved somewhere else? I imagine there must be many people who would have them.
My mother also tells me that she does not see a great deal of you. Please make an effort to visit her as often as you can; with the added responsibility of Florence and her baby she needs all the support she can get.
Take care of yourself, darling, and remember I love you.
Charles.
This letter clarified things for Grace in a way that she was quite sure Charles would not have altogether envisaged.
That afternoon she cycled over to the Priory and found Muriel sitting huddled by a rather ineffectual fire.
‘Ah, Grace,’ she said, ‘I would offer you a cup of tea, but Cook is upstairs resting. I’m afraid she is rather taking advantage of the situation since Maureen left and complains all the time that she has too much to do.’
‘That’s perfectly all right, Muriel,’ said Grace, reflecting that if every cup of tea at the Priory was still ex
pected to arrive at the press of a bellpush, it was no wonder poor Cook needed to rest. ‘I’ve actually come to see Florence. But I thought you’d like to know I had a letter from Charles today. He’s fine and in Egypt.’
‘Egypt! Such an interesting place,’ said Muriel as if Charles was on some kind of foreign holiday.
‘Yes, I expect so. Anyway, he seems very upset about my evacuees. He obviously agrees with you about them.’
‘I expect he does,’ said Muriel.
‘As a matter of fact, he wants me to get rid of them, send them somewhere else,’ said Grace.
‘I think that’s a very good idea.’
‘Well, they’re not going,’ said Grace, ‘and I would be grateful, Muriel, if you would not interfere in my affairs.’
‘Had you not written and asked him about them then?’
‘I wrote and told him about them, yes. After they had arrived and settled, and I could see it was all going to be all right. Before then I saw no reason to worry him. You obviously decided he needed to know rather earlier.’
‘Well, I think that was wrong of you. You should have asked his permission – it is his house after all.’
‘Muriel, it is our house, not his. I wish you could see that. And while Charles is away, I shall decide what goes on in it. Now I’ve actually come to see Florence. Good afternoon.’
Grace allowed herself one last satisfying glance at her mother-in-law as she closed the door; Muriel was staring fixedly after her, her mouth a round, very neat O.
‘I’m going up to London to see your father,’ she said to Florence.
‘Why?’ said Florence, hauling herself to a sitting position from where she lay on the sofa.
‘He sounds very – odd. Sort of distracted and detached. He said he was all right but—’
‘Clarissa saw him at Christmas,’ said Florence. ‘She didn’t say anything. Well, except that he was terribly lonely and a bit low. It’s very good of you, Grace, but isn’t it awfully dangerous up there? And if Mother found out, she’d be desperately upset.’
‘Apparently there’s been a lull in the bombing lately. Nothing for a while. And I don’t really care whether your mother is upset. I’m going. Someone has to keep an eye on him.’
She tried not to sound self-righteous, but it was difficult.
On the morning she was leaving the phone rang.
‘Grace, it’s Florence. I’m coming with you.’
‘You can’t, Florence, you’re about to have a baby.’
‘Not for at least five weeks, according to the doctor and the midwife. You said it was quiet up there at the moment. And he’s my father and I’ve been thinking. You’re right to be worried about him. I want to come.’
‘Your mother won’t let you.’
‘Well, she wouldn’t have, but she’s not here. She’s gone to see some old crony of hers who’s ill, over in Wells. That’s what made me decide. She’s staying the night. I couldn’t resist. We’ll be back tomorrow, won’t we? If she finds out, I’ll think of something to tell her.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Grace doubtfully.
She didn’t want Florence with her; she would be a terrible responsibility and, besides, she still found it very hard to be civil to her. She wasn’t at all sure she believed in all this daughterly devotion anyway. She was probably going to see the other man, the father of her baby.
‘Oh Grace, please. Come and pick me up. I presume you’re driving to Salisbury. I really do want to come. Besides, I’m dying of boredom here, I should so love an adventure.’
‘I don’t think it’ll be exactly that,’ said Grace tartly, ‘but – oh, all right. I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes. And we’ve got to drop the boys off with my mother.’
‘That’s very nice of her, to have them, I mean,’ said Florence. ‘Can’t they be left for a day?’
She obviously saw them rather as Muriel did, as small, inconvenient animals.
The train journey up wasn’t too bad; they reached Waterloo by midday. Florence sat and read Vogue all the way: she didn’t appear to be desperately worried about her father. Grace looked out of the window and thought that if Florence had any ulterior motives she was going to find herself very heavily chaperoned.
They managed to get a bus at the station; it took a complex and unconventional route, as so many did these days, the conductor explained, ducking up side streets, avoiding the worst-hit places. Grace and Florence sat gazing stricken out of the window, shocked by the damage everywhere, the missing glass in seemingly every window, the half-demolished buildings, the determinedly cheerful signs in blasted-open shops saying ‘Yes, we are bleeding well open.’ There was a huge crater in Hyde Park where a bomb had dropped. It looked spooky, surreal, and on the southern end of it, near Rotten Row, endless neat allotments.
‘My God,’ said Florence, ‘what a nightmare. I can’t believe anything is still standing.’
Yet when they reached the select confines of Baker Street, all was quiet and peaceful; Hitler had clearly not yet reached it.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Grace, as they knocked on Clifford’s door.
‘I’m fine,’ said Florence, ‘better than I’ve felt for weeks.’
There was no answer to their knock; they tried three times.
‘He knows I’m coming,’ said Grace distractedly. ‘He promised he’d be here.’
‘Let’s try the flat next door.’
Next door housed a tall, imposing, rather elegant-looking woman. Yes, she knew Mr Bennett, such a charming man, but he had been very low of late. She had no idea where he was, but he had been supposed to come in for bridge the night before and had knocked to say he had a bad headache, was going to have an early night. He had seemed perfectly well then.
‘And you’ve no reason to suppose he’s ill?’ said Grace. ‘He had a heart attack eighteen months ago, we worried about him.’
‘Well, no – I don’t think so,’ said the woman. She looked embarrassed.
‘Look,’ said Florence, ‘I’m his daughter. If there’s something I ought to know, please tell me. It’s important.’
‘Well – I can only say he – he drinks rather too much. Sometimes at least,’ said the woman. ‘At other times, he’s perfectly all right. We were wondering if there was something we should do. And if he has a heart condition – well—’
Grace’s eyes met Florence’s in perfect understanding and some relief; if that was the only problem, it was more containable than the breakdown which Grace had feared.
‘Is there any way we could get in?’ asked Florence. ‘An upstairs window or something?’
The woman’s eyes swept over her doubtfully. ‘I don’t think –’ she said.
‘Oh I didn’t mean me,’ said Florence. ‘My sister-in-law here can do it.’ She sounded exactly like Muriel; Grace scowled at her.
‘Well, not really,’ said the woman. ‘You could try telephoning, that’s all I can suggest. He does sometimes sleep very late—’
At which moment, the lift cranked up to the second floor and Clifford appeared from it, heavily laden with Harrods bags. ‘My darlings,’ he cried, setting the bags down, holding out his arms, ‘how lovely, how perfectly lovely.’
But he wasn’t himself. Grace and Florence watching him with loving anxiety, noticed an enormous consumption of alcohol before and after lunch, a forgetfulness about everything – where he had put things, what he was doing, where he might have been going, a vagueness when pressed on anything at all, not least his own situation; an almost deliberate refusal to discuss anything more complex than when they might have tea, whether they should go for a walk. And in repose his face was collapsed with sadness; he made a huge effort, gossiped, chatted, laughed, but he was clearly struggling with a considerable depression.
‘Daddy,’ said Florence, finally, ‘do you really think it’s all right for you to be here? In London, in the Blitz? It’s terribly dangerous.’
‘I know it is,’ he said, his face quite savage
for a moment in its misery, ‘and I don’t think it matters very much. Do you?’
‘Daddy, of course it does.’
‘Why?’
‘Well – we don’t want you – killed. Do we, Grace? We love you, we care what happens to you.’
‘I know, my darling,’ said Clifford, ‘and it’s sweet of you. But my future is a little bleak, don’t you think? I cannot return to Wiltshire. My working days are over. My friends are few and far between. I don’t have a lot to live for. Frankly.’
He smiled again, and poured himself a very large whisky. Florence and Grace looked at each other.
‘But Clifford,’ said Grace, ‘you have us. Florence’s baby to look forward to. Charles coming home one day, the end of the war—’
‘Grace darling, Charles will never, I feel sure, wish to see me or speak to me again. Well, only in the briefest terms. I shall not be able to see very much of Florence’s baby, I fear. Or any of you. No, I have relinquished the greater part of my life, I’m afraid. I am not saying I regret it, I don’t. But it is a sadness to me in many ways. A huge sadness. And therefore I cannot fear any of Mr Hitler’s bombs too much. Oh I’m sorry,’ he said, sensing their unhappiness, their anxiety, ‘I didn’t mean to be morbid. Listen, I have lots of fun still. Mrs Turner Andrews next door is a charming woman, we play bridge a great deal, I go to concerts almost every day, Myra Hess gives the most wonderful recitals at the National Gallery. Such a marvellous, brave woman. And as I told you, Grace, I go to my club. It is not really very terrible. But I can’t leave London, all I have of life is here, and I hope very much you are not going to try and tell me to drink less. Because I really don’t want to do that. Now then, what shall we do this evening? Brave the West End? There are lots of restaurants still open, you’d be surprised. Or shall we eat here? I daresay I could knock something up, I have become a great whizz with the dried egg—’
‘Daddy,’ said Florence carefully, ‘Daddy, what about the – the money side of things? It seems there isn’t very much. Do you have shares or anything, perhaps, that you could – well, sell a few of?’
‘Shares, my angel? Not the time to sell! The stock exchange is not exactly booming at the moment.’ He poured himself another whisky. ‘Tell your mother she’s welcome to my pension. I don’t spend much now. Only on this stuff,’ he added, indicating the bottle. ‘There’s no food in the shops to buy. I don’t need clothes. So I can make that over to her. Pay it into her account.’
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