Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

‘No, I can’t say I do,’ said Clarissa, ‘but that comes of being a bigheaded little madam, as my nanny used to call me. Dear Nanny. She died last year, I cried more at her funeral than I did at my mother’s. Isn’t that awful? My mother was wonderful, frightfully glamorous and everything, the original girl who danced with the Prince of Wales, you know, but I never really felt I knew her. Now your mother’s a real mother. Isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she is,’ said Grace. She hadn’t really thought about it before.

  ‘Like Florence is going to be. Isn’t that amazing, whoever would have thought it? Now listen, darling, I must go. It’s a bit of a hike back to the Priory. I’m going to have a chat with Clifford when I get back to London, see if I can’t persuade him to do something about the finances. And darling, you really mustn’t even think of getting rid of those boys. Charles had no right to ask you.’ Her voice was very serious suddenly, almost passionate. Grace looked at her, startled. ‘He’s – well, he’s rather a taker, Charles. The tiniest bit manipulative. You must stand up for yourself, Grace. You’re doing a wonderful job here. Don’t let him – unsettle you.’

  It seemed a strange word, but she pronounced it very definitely. There was an expression in her brown eyes that intrigued Grace: an earnestness, something close to anxiety. Then she smiled, deliberately lightening the atmosphere.

  ‘We girls have to stick together. Against these wretched men. Not let them get the upper hand. Goodbye, darling. It’s been lovely.’

  ‘Goodbye’ said Grace, returning the kiss. She felt cheered suddenly by Clarissa’s friendship. She was a most unexpected ally, Grace thought; but she could clearly be a very powerful one. If she ever needed help again, she would know where to ask for it.

  Ben’s battalion was leaving for North Africa on 12 June. Linda had written to ask him if he wanted her to go up and see him, but there had been no reply; obviously he hadn’t got the letter, but she was nonetheless disappointed, upset, sharply aware of her loneliness, of missing him, of the strain of living alone with Nan. Janice told her to take pot luck, go up anyway, but she said she didn’t think she should. ‘I’d never find him, and he might get into trouble. No, if he doesn’t reply he doesn’t, and I’ll just have to put it down to fate.’

  On the night of 7 June, which was particularly lovely, Janice asked Linda to go to a party with her and some other girls at Frisco’s Club, near Piccadilly.

  ‘It’ll be fun, go on, lots of RAF chaps coming. Someone’s twenty-first, that pilot we met last week, do you remember?’

  ‘Yeah, he was gorgeous.’

  ‘Well then—’

  ‘Jan, I don’t think I should,’ said Linda. ‘Nan’s always going on about me going out all the time. I’m scared she’ll write and tell Ben.’

  ‘Evil old bag,’ said Janice, ‘Anyway, I’m sure she won’t. What’s she got to tell anyway? You haven’t done anything wrong. Go on, Linda, it’ll do you good. You seem a bit low. Come for a bit anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, I am a bit. Low I mean,’ said Linda. ‘All right, I’ll come for an hour or so. Might cheer me up.’

  ‘Course it will.’

  She got ready in the factory toilets, so she didn’t have to go home, told Nan she was working an extra shift; she’d been practising a new hairstyle and she’d been dying to try it out. It fell in a huge, snaky wave over one eye, and it was called the Peek-a-boo look; Veronica Lake had made it famous and it was banned in the factories because it might get caught in the machinery. She had made herself a new blouse, Nan had given her her clothing coupons, and taken her skirt up. Oh for some stockings, she thought, slapping on leg make-up, drawing the seam up the back of her legs with a thick eyebrow pencil. All the girls did, but at least she had decent legs, and her high heels were still in good nick; she looked all right, more than all right, pretty nice really.

  It was a very good party: lots of booze, lots of good music and she found herself on the receiving end of a great deal of attention. Maybe it was just the hairstyle, but she really had got the hang of the jitterbug now and at one stage the whole floor cleared to watch her and her partner, the RAF pilot. He reminded her of Ben a bit; he was dark, with the same melting brown eyes.

  ‘I must go,’ she said to Janice at ten o’clock. ‘I really must. I’ll miss the bus else.’

  ‘Oh go on. Why don’t you stay? You look more cheerful than you have for weeks. We can sleep down the tube, go back in the morning. This is such good fun. And there’s some more blokes coming later.’

  Linda hesitated; it was a huge temptation. She was having such a good time and Janice was right, she had cheered up. And she wasn’t going to see Ben for so long.

  But – ‘No,’ she said finally, ‘no, I think I’d best get back. Nan’ll be worried. I’ll ring you in the morning.’

  ‘You’re nuts,’ said Janice cheerfully.

  ‘She’s gorgeous, your friend,’ said one of the pilots, watching Linda’s curvy figure, her slender legs, as she made her way up the steps of the club. ‘I could really get to fancy her.’

  ‘Yeah, well don’t bother. She’s well spoken for,’ said Janice.

  That night there was the first air raid for some time: a landmine fell on Chiswick and a stick of bombs on Acton. The little house where Linda and Nan lived was hit before they had time to get to the shelter; Linda was found under a heap of rubble, still holding Nan’s dressing gown.

  Chapter 15

  Summer 1941

  ‘Thing is, miss, they’re asking me to do housework, miss. Scrubbing the kitchen floor this morning, I was. Yesterday it was washing the sheets. And then out for haymaking. It’s not what I came for, miss, it’s not right.’

  ‘No, it isn’t right,’ said Grace with a sigh. ‘What about the other two girls, is it the same for them?’

  ‘Well it is for Edna. Dorothy’s all right.’

  The glare that accompanied this made it clear Dorothy was a case apart. ‘No better than she should be, Dorothy isn’t.’

  ‘Now what does that mean, Madge?’

  Silence. Grace sighed again. ‘Madge, if you don’t tell me every thing I can’t possibly sort things out. Or try and sort them out.’

  ‘Dorothy’s sweet on the farmer’s brother, Miss,’ said Madge. ‘And it’s mutual. Always kissing, and worse, up in the lofts, she’ll get her comeuppance good and proper if she’s not very careful and—’

  ‘Yes, all right, Madge. I certainly can’t do anything about that. It’s quite outside my area of responsibility. But I take it Dorothy doesn’t get asked to scrub floors and so on?’

  ‘No, miss. Nor do much haymaking neither.’

  ‘Well, look, I’ll report back to the committee. I’m not supposed to talk to the farmer direct. And we’ll see if we can get you two moved. That’s the best thing, I should think. Anything else while I’m here?’

  ‘I’m still waiting for my shoes, miss,’ said Madge. ‘Just got the wellies, and they’re not a pair. Two left feet.’

  ‘Did you say anything when they gave them to you?’ said Grace wearily.

  ‘Of course I did,’ said Madge. ‘The woman said I had to put up with ’em for now. For now! ’itler’ll be an old man before I get a pair, this rate.’

  ‘Well I’ll see if I can sort that out as well,’ said Grace, ‘it can’t be very comfortable. I’ll be in touch. All right?’

  ‘All right, miss. Thanks, miss.’

  As she drove home along the sunlit lanes, she wondered how much longer she would be able to do this job. It was all very well when she had had plenty of time and money, but it was extremely time-consuming, especially as she was so conscientious. Mrs Lacey had told her it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours a week, but then Mrs Lacey was not too much in touch with reality.

  Grace had cut down the hours the gardener spent with her, and was doing a lot more herself, and the same went for Mrs Babbage and the housework. David’s relentless bed-wetting actually did make for a lot of work, and cooking seemed to take longer an
d longer as supplies dwindled. She had become a whizz at egg dishes (although with the meal for the hens being rationed now, she had to give up her egg coupons in return), and she was beginning to reap her vegetable harvest, but not having any butter made a lot of the cooking very difficult. She had found that if she beat milk into the butter, it went much further, increased the two ounces by about twenty-five per cent, but that took a long time. They were comparatively lucky in the country with meat; although the rations were supposed to be strictly adhered to, rabbits were fairly plentiful, although their increasing popularity made them harder to come by, and a sheep had only to look a tiny bit scrapy, as Mrs Babbage called it, and it would find itself very swiftly converted into stew. Grace, who had become something of a pet with the local farmers – for she usually managed to put their view to her girls, as well as the other way round – often got half a pound of mutton or a skinned rabbit pressed into her hands as she left.

  And now she had a new source of illicit supplies. One of the pupils at Miss Merton’s dancing class, a tiny, rosy-faced creature called Elspeth Dunn, showed, Grace thought, extraordinary musicality; she had found her picking out a tune on the piano one day and had begun to teach her a little after each class. After a few weeks, Elspeth’s father, who was a burly, rather morose-looking man who collected her in his truck from school, marched up to Grace and asked her if it was her teaching Elspeth tunes; Grace rather nervously said it was.

  ‘’Tisn’t right,’ he said, ‘’tisn’t right, not really.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but she seemed so keen and she’s very musical,’ said Grace.

  ‘That’s as maybe, And I’m not sayin’ she don’t enjoy it, but ’tisn’t right you doing it for nothin’. So I want you to ’ave this,’ and he reached into the deep pocket of his hugely ancient, baggy tweed trousers and produced a grubby greaseproof paper parcel, wrapped around with rubber bands.

  ‘You take this,’ he said. ‘You look like you could do with puttin’ a bit of weight on.’

  And then he was gone, looking gloomier than ever; Grace rather gingerly opened the parcel and found quite a large piece of cheese inside, a wonderful dark rich Cheddar.

  ‘Oh,’ she said rapturously to David, who was waiting patiently for her, ‘we can have cauliflower cheese tonight for supper, think of that.’

  ‘Daniel won’t like it, miss.’

  ‘Daniel can lump it.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ He grinned up at her. ‘All the more for us, miss.’

  However hard she tried, she couldn’t get them to call her anything but ‘miss’.

  ‘There’s a telegram for you, Florence,’ said Muriel.

  Florence had been lying in the garden, gazing at Imogen with adoring eyes, at her fat brown arms and legs, the blonde fluff appearing on her small head, the brilliantly blue eyes fixed on a toy just out of reach, and trying to decide if the rolling motion Imogen had adopted recently when put on her tummy really showed an early attempt at crawling. Muriel’s words permeated her happiness, splintered it into dark, threatening fragments. Robert had written several times about the baby, had expressed his great joy and pride, had said how he missed her, how he longed to meet his daughter, how he was living for the time when they could be together again: harmless, clever letters, designed to make her feel safe, secure, back in his thrall. It was strange, she could not explain it even to herself, but when she had not heard from him for a while her determination to leave him, to seek a divorce increased, but once he was in contact with her, however tenuously, she became frightened again, trapped, helpless.

  She had tried to explain it to Clarissa, she being the only person privy to her secret, and Clarissa had said, in her cheerful clear sighted way, ‘He’s got you by the balls, darling, that’s where.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Florence fretfully.

  ‘I mean he’s brainwashed you. Made you believe he’s in control. Whatever you do. One of the chaps here was talking about it the other day, been on some sort of course. On interrogation. Someone gets right into your head, dominates you completely like Robert did when you were first married – and you can’t break out of it. Unless you resist it totally from the very beginning, which of course you didn’t. Well, you wouldn’t want to. It’s a kind of conditioning.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Florence.

  ‘He’s taught you to think that you really can’t manage without him. Whatever he does. That you need him. Also’ – she looked at Florence thoughtfully – ‘you were a virgin, darling, weren’t you? When you got married? Well, before Robert anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Florence reluctantly.

  ‘Well, that’s pretty potent stuff, you know. First lover. Very powerful hold.’

  ‘You’re terribly clever, Clarissa,’ said Florence. ‘No one would think it, just meeting you, but you are.’

  ‘Thank you, darling. For those few awfully kind words.’

  ‘Sorry. I meant it nicely. So what do I do about it?’

  ‘Act while he’s away. You must. Your lovely heavenly Giles, would he be cited? As co-respondent?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes, he would, he’s often said so. But it’s a bit difficult while he’s at sea. If he’s still at sea.’ She looked at Clarissa very sombrely. ‘Anyway, I mustn’t start thinking about that.’

  ‘No. You mustn’t. None of us must start thinking about that. Anyway, get things going, darling. Start a divorce action. There’s an awful lot of it about. Not the disgrace it was.’

  ‘There’s not a lot down here,’ said Florence.

  ‘No? Well, I expect you’ll go back to London soon, won’t you? The bombing does seem to be over.’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel safe here. From everything. Anyway, you’re right, and I will do something about it. I’ll go and see someone soon. Not Jacobs, though. Clarissa –’ Florence looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Was Charles – was he –’

  ‘My first? Darling, of course not. I’m a terribly bad girl, you know that. Tell you what though. Jack is unarguably, most definitely, absolutely my last. Now have you got anything to drink in this rather chilly old house? God, can you remember what it felt like to be warm? I can’t.’

  Florence took the telegram from her mother with a hand that was shaking violently, tore it open awkwardly.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Oh God, no.’

  Muriel took the telegram from her and read it: ‘Wangled week’s leave. Home 14 June. All love to both, Robert.’

  Grace was nearly home; she stopped the car outside the vicarage to see if the vicar wanted her for choir rehearsal the next day. The regular organist had been called up and old John Stokes was commuting between the Thorpes and really couldn’t cope; Grace couldn’t play the organ, but there was a piano in the church and she was much in demand for all kinds of occasions, not only choir practice but early Communion, christenings and occasionally the morning service. Muriel was deeply disapproving and had threatened to report what she called the affair to the bishop: ‘What he would say if he knew that organ music had been banished from this church I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Well, he’d have to talk either to Mr Churchill or Adolf Hitler about it,’ said Grace wearily, ‘they’re responsible, not me.’

  Muriel made the distasteful noise that was so entirely her own, halfway between a snort and a sniff, and went back to the socks she was knitting – ‘for Charles. You certainly won’t be making any, with those refugees taking up all your time.’

  The vicar did want her for choir practice; he gave her a cup of rather strong tea and a highly indigestible spam sandwich, asked her how the boys were, whether she had heard from Charles recently, and if she could help with the fête. By the time she escaped it was well after one.

  As she got back into her car, a small army truck went past her; there was so little traffic on the roads these days, apart from farm vehicles, that you noticed everything. Now where could that be going, on this lovely day, so far from anywhere? she wondered, and drove on down
the High Street, thinking not for the first time that if Charles knew she was driving his precious car about, and without even having had any proper driving lessons, he would – well, she couldn’t think what he would do. Maybe she would be driven to selling it if there was no money for her to live on, and that would serve him right. The thought quite cheered her up.

  She was held up in the lane outside the village by a herd of cows; she sat there patiently, smiling at them, thinking how sweet they were with their long lashes and huge, moist noses, and then started again on down the hill to the Mill House. And stiffened, in something approaching terror, terror and awe, at the sight of the army truck standing in her drive.

  She got out, her legs suddenly weak; stood there leaning on the car, staring, as a man climbed down from the truck, a sergeant, she noticed confusedly. He was tall, and rather thin, with immensely dark eyes, and he reminded her of someone and she couldn’t think who. He walked heavily towards her, taking off his beret, holding out his hand, and his handshake was warm, warm and very steady, and his face, narrow, angular, was drawn, strained, and although he smiled at her, it was fleeting, gone again at once, and then he spoke, and his voice was gentle, quite quiet, with a London accent, and she remembered that moment, those words for the rest of her life; time froze as she stood there, her hand in his, his dark eyes fixed almost desperately on her face, and he said, ‘Mrs Bennett? Mrs – Grace Bennett?’

  And ‘Yes,’ she said, not moving, not taking her hand away, ‘yes, that’s me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Bennett,’ he said. ‘I’m Ben Lucas, David and Daniel’s father. Could I come inside for a bit, please?’

  Chapter 16

  Summer–Autumn 1941

  He sat at the kitchen table, his long legs slightly awkwardly confined under it, blowing his nose, looking at her rather helplessly as she poured him a beer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bennett. I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Mr Lucas, please don’t apologize. Please.’