‘Won’t be long,’ he had said to her uneasily, as they set off for the lake, ‘back in a couple of hours. You’ll be all right, will you?’
‘Perfectly all right, Clifford,’ said Grace firmly, knowing what was in his mind and finding it almost laughable. ‘Now you enjoy your fishing, don’t let Daniel fall in, and see if you can actually bring something back. There’s nothing for supper except the rest of that rabbit.’
‘Oh God,’ said Clifford, ‘I tell you, Grace, if I go to heaven, the one of God’s creatures that I trust will not be there is rabbits.’
‘Well, bring me back some trout then,’ Grace had said, laughing.
Looking at Robert now, she thought yet again how unlikely the stories about him were. Though she had come to feel some sympathy for Florence, if not fondness, she really couldn’t believe Robert actually ever hit her. And Florence had never mentioned it herself. Surely, if it was true, she wouldn’t stay with him. She’d divorce him: anybody would. It was just some stupid idea that possessed the family – encouraged by Florence possibly, at a time when it suited her – and which had got out of hand. He might well have lost his temper a few times, he probably had, it was absolutely understandable if he suspected anything at all about Imogen. And he really did seem to love Florence. It must be hard for him, Grace thought, to have to see her so obsessed with Imogen. Any man would have found it hard to cope with the intensity of that obsession, even with no cause for suspicion or jealousy. There was no situation, no conversation even, that involved Florence that was not dominated by Imogen, even if she wasn’t there. What she had said, what she had done, what she had accomplished; there was a constant requirement to admire, to exclaim, to listen, to watch. She could at times be a beguiling little creature, but increasingly she seemed to Grace a monster, difficult, demanding, prone to terrible tantrums; Grace found it hard not to agree with Muriel that a good strict nanny would have done wonders for her.
‘Hallo, Robert,’ she said now, ‘how nice to see you. You look well.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I’m having a rather easy war now. No danger and not a lot of hardship. But I’m assured what I’m doing is useful and important, so I have to put up with it.’ He smiled, then said, more seriously, ‘I wouldn’t blame you for feeling quite hostile to me, Grace, with Charles out there, in that godawful desert.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no I don’t. I hadn’t thought of it like that and, anyway, if you’re training men to go out and fight more effectively, then you are doing something very important.’
‘What news of Charles by the way?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘he’s fine. Or was last time he wrote. Of course everything is months behind. But then he said it was all right. He seems to have plenty of good friends –’ Her voice tailed off; she couldn’t think of anything sensible or interesting to say.
‘Do you worry about him very much?’
‘Yes, of course I do. But you get used to it, the worry. It’s like indigestion, not very nice, but not actually dangerous.’
‘You’re doing a marvellous job I think,’ he said suddenly. ‘Terrific of you to have those little lads. It can’t be easy.’
‘It’s very easy,’ said Grace, ‘in fact. They’re wonderful company, and they’re very interesting children. David, the older one, is extremely musical and Daniel is very intelligent. Clifford’s taught him to play chess and he’s really good at it.’
‘Oh come on, Grace. You’re just being modest. They must be jolly hard work, not all sweetness and light and chess and music. And they must be a problem to you at times. Miss their family and so on.’
‘Well, they do, yes. Especially as their mother’s been killed.’
‘She has?’
‘Yes. Didn’t Florence tell you?’
‘Florence doesn’t tell me much,’ said Robert, with a slightly grim smile. ‘Unless it’s about Imogen. I love that little girl, but I could begin to get weary of her. I’m afraid she’s very spoilt. When the war’s over and I’m at home again, there’s going to have to be some discipline administered.’
‘Well – I suppose with her having been so ill –’ said Grace, trying to be tactful, agreeing with him nonetheless.
‘Oh, of course, and it’s natural Florence should feel so protective towards her. But just the same, it’s not fair on the child. No one will like her, she won’t have any friends.’
‘Well,’ said Grace, ‘I suppose you’re right. Even Clifford was saying something of the sort—’
‘Dear old boy! How is he? I’m sorry to have missed him today. Such a fine old chap, even if he is a bit naughty. I do think you’re terrific,’ he added, ‘in lots of ways, of course, but especially in having the guts to take him on. Not just because of Muriel’s disapproval, but Florence did say he’d been drinking rather a lot –’
‘No, he’s much better,’ said Grace, ‘much better. Well, partly because what he wants is very hard to get hold of. But he really has tried. And the boys have helped him too, they think he’s wonderful and he loves them both.’
‘I still think you’re wonderful,’ said Robert, smiling at her, ‘but as I said, what I really came for was to thank you, formally and officially, for all you did to help Florence the night Imogen was born. You were clearly absolutely marvellous; she’s said more than once she couldn’t have got through it, survived even, without you. It was marvellous of you, Grace. I just wanted to say that. I’ve told you before and I’ll no doubt tell you again, you’re a pretty good addition to this family. You’re doing such a lot and not getting a lot of support, or indeed any thanks. I think it’s hard for you.’
Grace, who had thought this herself and increasingly frequently lately, felt warmed, soothed, as if someone had suddenly brought her in from a cold, desolate winter landscape, wrapped her in soft blankets and sat her down by a bright, glowing fire. She smiled at him and said, ‘Oh Robert, you don’t realize how nice it is to hear that. It’s not that one wants thanks exactly, but—’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘recognition perhaps? I know exactly. I have felt it a little sometimes myself. When –’ He looked at her, smiled again. ‘Oh now, this is self-indulgent nonsense. What I’ve done is nothing compared with you.’
Grace didn’t say anything, just looked at him.
‘I shouldn’t be talking like this, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but you know, Grace, it is hard for me. I love Florence so much and I can see what she feels for me in return is less. There’s nothing I can do about that, of course, but just the same it hurts. Can you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace. Her voice was hardly a whisper; she didn’t dare even look at him.
‘It was always like that,’ he said, ‘from the beginning. I was so in love with her, and I knew she didn’t feel the same. I knew she had married me without being really in love with me.’
Grace was silent.
‘Now I’m not suggesting for a moment that she married me for my money, as some people have suggested, she has more self-respect, more intelligence than that. It’s just that – well, it all seems a bit uneven, lopsided. I would do anything for Florence, anything, and for Imogen; I sometimes feel she doesn’t return that feeling.’
‘I’m sure she does,’ said Grace.
‘No, Grace, she doesn’t. I can see it for myself, Anyway, I didn’t want to burden you with my – sadness. It isn’t fair.’
‘Oh Robert, don’t say that. I hate to think of—’ She bit her lip, terrified she was going to say too much, betray Florence. She might not like her, not trust her, but she was not going to tell her secrets.
‘Hate to think of what, Grace? What do you hate to think of?’
‘Nothing, Robert, nothing.’
‘Grace, I’d rather know. It would make it easier for me if I knew exactly where I stand. If there was really not a lot of love for me, not a lot of hope. I mean, if I thought there was someone else, for instance, I just wouldn’t want to hang around.’
Grace was be
ginning to feel like the mouse she had seen in the cat’s jaws, trapped, tormented, with no possible means of escape. Robert was clearly looking for answers, answers that he felt she could provide. She sat, trying to look puzzled, innocent, wondering how much longer she could hold out, praying for the phone to ring, Clifford to return, anything. She realized her fists were clenched, that she was sweating.
Robert started talking again. ‘Although, of course, there is Imogen now. I love her so much. In spite of what I just said about her being spoilt. Sweet-looking little thing, isn’t she? So pretty. A little English rose. No one will believe me, but I was blond at that age.’
‘Really?’ said Grace. This was a nightmare; she didn’t know what to do, debated saying she had to go to the lavatory, anything. And then he smiled suddenly and said, ‘I’d love that cup of tea, Grace.’
‘Oh Robert, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ll go and get it now.’
She struggled to her feet, walked into the house; Robert followed her into the kitchen, sat and watched her while she boiled the kettle, got the cake out of the tin.
‘It’s not much of a cake,’ she said apologetically, ‘more like a loaf, really. It’s very difficult, without fruit or butter or anything. But it’s cake. The boys seem to enjoy it.’
‘I’m sure I will too.’ He sat back, smiling at her. ‘You’ve made this house so nice,’ he said, ‘it has such a lovely atmosphere. You have a talent for homemaking, Grace. Lucky old Charles.’ He paused, then said, ‘Grace –’
‘Yes, Robert?’
‘Grace, you were there when Imogen was actually born, weren’t you?’
‘I certainly was.’
‘She was – very small. Wasn’t she?’
‘Quite, yes. Five pounds, I think. Why?’
‘Oh – nothing,’ said Robert. ‘I found her birth registration card last night, from the hospital, and I thought that sounded extremely little. I wondered if it was a mistake. I mean it was obviously a very hectic night and it can’t have been easy for them –’
‘Oh no,’ said Grace, ‘no, I don’t think it was a mistake. In fact there was a bit of a to-do because they all said that considering she was almost a month early she was quite big really.’
‘A month early,’ said Robert. ‘Yes, of course. I hadn’t taken that into the equation. How silly of me. Thank you, Grace.’
Chapter 19
Autumn 1942
Clarissa thought she had never been so happy as that autumn in Dartmouth. She had loved it from the first moment she saw it, when she had got out of the train at Kingswear, on the other side of the water, and taken the ferry across the Dart. The town was built in zigzagging layers up the hillside, the houses painted blue and cream and green and white, the red and white splendour of the Royal Naval College standing high on one side, overlooking the great natural harbour, the castle and the mouth of the Dart. The air was salty and smelt of the sea, and filled with the cries of seagulls; she was billeted at the top of the town in a Victorian gothic building called Warfleet House, charming, welcoming, with large rooms and fine fireplaces. Her room was set at the side, overlooking Warfleet Creek; she would walk up the steep streets to it in the evening, from her small office in the town, and feel for the first time since she had joined the Wrens that she was actually going to a home, rather than a billet.
Life was simply the best fun: nobody could help having a wonderful time, certainly not if they were female – the shortage of women was considerable. The college was being used as an American base, and the Americans were about the town in their thou sands, with their money and their charm, and their unbelievable goodies, nylon stockings, perfume and cigarettes, Camels and Chesterfields and Lucky Strikes, and chewing gum and sweets – it was said no child in Dartmouth ever went without sweets and certainly not at their birthday parties. There were English officers living in the town, or there on leave, there were endless parties, balls at the college, and an innovation brought in by the Americans, ‘Wienie roasts,’ when steak – an unbelievable luxury in any case – was grilled over open fires. There were hilarious evenings at the famous Dartmouth pubs, the Dartmouth Arms and the Cherub Inn; and on days off they would catch the ferry down to the lush green of the Dittisham basin and drink beer at the Ship Inn, or ring the big bell at the end of the jetty which summoned a rowboat ferry to take you to the other side, to Greenway, perfect for picnics, or on up the narrow winding lanes to the beaches of Torbay.
May was there, billeted on the other side, in the commandeered Royal Dart Hotel, renamed HMS Cicala; there was immense pleasure and amusement in the town when Lord Haw-Haw, the British traitor, broadcasting regular propaganda on the German radio, announced that HMS Cicala had been sunk.
Clarissa loved it all, every moment of it, the work as well as the fun: and she did have to work extremely hard, responsible not only for the practical administration of Warfleet, but with the personal problems of the Wrens in her care, with their boyfriends, requests for leave, homesickness, postings. The days, often twelve, fourteen hours long, tumbled one upon the other, fast, too fast; and despite the constant danger, frequent exhaustion, missing Jack, worrying about Jack, still feeling guilty about Jack, she often thought she would have liked that time to go on for ever.
And then it stopped.
Grace was sitting in the kitchen working out which carols would be best for the nativity play – not too difficult for the little ones, not too babyish for the older ones – when she heard the phone ringing. She got up to answer it, was halfway down the passage when it stopped. Clifford, having more or less hidden from the phone for months, had suddenly rather taken to answering it. It was not an entirely happy state of affairs, as he was a great deal less efficient than Mrs Boscombe about taking messages and had also taken to making decisions on her behalf when she wasn’t there, telling Miss Merton she was too busy to take on another child for music that week, or the vicar that she could easily manage choir practice. She had tried to dissuade him, but he had been so hurt, had said he wanted to help, that she had given up. That would almost undoubtedly be the vicar; she couldn’t manage choir practice this week, she had to take David to the dentist and she really had to get her word in before Clifford’s.
She hurried into the hall and saw Clifford replacing the receiver very slowly and carefully. He looked at her, and his face was ghastly white, his eyes haunted blue caverns within it. Her first thought was Charles, and her legs became weak, threatened to give way; but he recognized her fear and said at once, considerate for her as always, ‘No, it’s not – not Charles,’ and then just stood there, staring at her.
‘Who was it Clifford? What is it?’
‘It was Florence,’ he said. He was speaking with great difficulty.
Grace felt sick. ‘Not Imogen?’ she said. ‘Surely not now? Not after—’
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘not Imogen, she’s fine. No, it was about – about Jack. Clarissa phoned the Priory. He’s been shot down. His luck’s broken at last.’
‘Oh God,’ said Grace, ‘Oh Clifford, is he dead?’
‘No. At least not yet. Terribly badly injured. Burnt. That’s all we know at the moment. Poor boy. Poor dear boy.’ And he sat down on the chair and buried his head in his hands.
Grace looked at him helplessly, not knowing how to comfort him, what to say or do. She felt rather odd; she had hardly known Jack, and it was hard to feel grief for him, but she was shocked and horrified for Clarissa, and for Clifford himself. He loved them both so; and every death brought others nearer somehow, every death they heard of made it more impossible that Charles would escape it, would come safely home. God, she thought, looking out of the window at the clear wintry sky, the sky that only a few hundred miles away was filled with fire and danger; where would it end? How many more people would have to die before it was over, before someone said enough? She shuddered, felt cold and sick, put her arms round Clifford and hugged him very close.
‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘don’t despair. It may not
be so bad.’
But she knew she didn’t believe it.
Clarissa sat in her office at Dartmouth, trying to work. It was very difficult, but she had to hang onto something, distract herself somehow. She was filled not only with misery and fear, but with a self-loathing that was like an evil physical presence, close, clinging to her. The memory of the intense pleasure, the work she loved, the fun she had been having over the past months intensified her remorse. She had been horrible to Jack, had failed him totally, she had been distant and distracted the last time he had been on leave, out with another man the night before he had left for North Africa, utterly engrossed in her work, her own self-important life, had not even written him many letters. And now he was lying horribly injured, possibly dying, and thinking she no longer loved him. His plane had been shot down and he had gone with it, his parachute had either failed or he had been unable to try to escape; the details in the report she had received from his squadron commander were hazy. But they had got him out, somehow, and he was still breathing, still alive; for days he had clung to life and now there was at least some hope.
But his injuries were considerable; she must prepare herself for that. When – this word rather than the deadly ‘if’ was used – he was well enough he would be flown home to England, to Addenbrooke’s Hospital near Cambridge, to be cared for there. And then she would have to face him, her betrayed, deceived husband, face his injuries, and try to reassure him that she did still love him.
Florence had been deeply shocked by the news about Jack. She was very fond of him, and extraordinarily close to Clarissa; she had not seen her, but had spoken to her on the telephone, and had been shocked by her raw pain, and her remorse.
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