‘How could I have done it, Florence?’ she kept saying. ‘How could I have not been there, the night before he went away, not said goodbye to him? I love him, I love him so much and he must have thought I didn’t any more. I was out all night, Florence, all night, imagine how that must have seemed. Oh God, I wish I was dead myself. I don’t know how I can bear it.’
Useless in the face of such remorse to apply logic, to point out that Jack could have thought that she was on duty, to reassure, to say that of course he knew she still loved him, that they had been together at Christmas, that it was only one night she had been out.
She tried, she said all those things, but Clarissa’s voice, shaken, heavy with tears, said no, no, she didn’t understand, she had been horrible to Jack at Christmas, bound up in her work, impatient with him and his grumblings before he finally went away, that he had known she was not on duty, had been told so by the duty officer. ‘I failed him, Florence,’ she said, ‘failed him totally. And now it’s too late and I can never put it right.’
Florence put the phone down finally, her heart wrenched with sympathy, thinking also of Giles and how he must perceive her behaviour towards him, also a failure, a treachery. She had never written, never tried to explain, there had semed no point; sitting now, staring at the telephone, still hearing Clarissa’s pain-racked voice, thinking of Giles, of how dreadful it would be if he was killed, thinking she no longer loved him, had simply, carelessly stood him up, left him waiting for long hours on her doorstep, she decided she would write, would explain. He was far, far away again, he couldn’t suddenly descend on her, try to change her mind, weaken her will; she owed him an explanation, he deserved to be told the truth.
She walked into the morning room to find some writing paper, just in time to see Imogen lifting one of Muriel’s more precious Staffordshire pieces and hurling it, an expression of huge satisfaction on her small face, onto the fireplace where it fragmented most spectacularly.
‘Mother, I’m sorry. What more can I say?’
‘You could do something about that child,’ said Muriel. ‘Discipline her. Stop her running riot.’
‘It’s a difficult age,’ said Florence weakly.
‘Florence, all ages are difficult. You don’t seem to have grasped that fact. I do assure you that thirty-two, or whatever you are, seems quite difficult at the moment,’ she added tartly.
‘And it isn’t very sensible to leave pieces of valuable china about when a small child can get at them.’
‘I was always of the opinion,’ said Muriel firmly, ‘that the child should be trained to accommodate the house and not the other way round. Whatever is she doing now? Oh Florence, for heaven’s sake, she’s got the cat by the tail and she’s dragging it after her down the path. Do something about her. Or I shall.’
That afternoon, Florence went to see Nanny Baines.
Nanny Baines was not only delighted to be presented with the problem of Imogen, she felt a clear sense of vindication. She had been waiting for the call, ever since Florence had brought Imogen home, had watched in horror as she insisted she could manage on her own.
‘She’s not bringing that child up,’ she confided to Mrs Babbage, her friend and confidante for many years, ‘she’s dragging it down. Poor Mrs Bennett is at her wits’ end. All this nonsense about wanting to rear the child herself; it never works, and there’s the proof, clear for all to see.’
Mrs Babbage agreed with her most fervently, and indeed went one step further. ‘It’s not natural,’ she said, ‘not for her sort. They’ve not the instinct for it, Miss Baines, that’s the thing. Although young Mrs Bennett, now, she’s the exception. Wonderful with those little boys, she is.’
‘Well,’ said Nanny Baines, ‘you say that, but you have to remember they’re not hers. Not her own flesh and blood. Besides,’ she added darkly, ‘she’s not quite – well, we’re not talking about quite the same type of person there. Are we? Not quite. Very sweet, of course, but I know Mrs Bennett did feel Mr Charles was marrying slightly beneath him. Slightly.’
‘Well I don’t agree,’ said Mrs Babbage staunchly.
‘And anyway, Nanny, I’ve decided to do something myself,’ said Florence, ‘to help, in the war I mean. They’re calling up women now, and although I wouldn’t be, because of Imogen, I do feel I could do my bit.’
‘What were you thinking of doing?’ asked Nanny Baines. ‘Not joining the Wrens like Mrs Compton Brown? Because I don’t think—’
‘No, Nanny, I can’t possibly join one of the services. I don’t want to leave Imogen to that extent. No, I’m going to get a job in a factory.’
‘A factory!’ said Nanny Baines. She didn’t say anything further, but she felt it was no wonder Imogen had got into the state she had, with a mother who was prepared to work in a factory.
Muriel had been interestingly encouraging about the factory work; Florence had expected to hear a great deal about keeping up standards and the sort of people she would be mixing with, but Muriel had simply said she thought it was very good of Florence, and that in these hard times one had to be prepared to do anything. Florence didn’t like to point out that Muriel didn’t seem prepared to do anything at all, not even part with her aluminium saucepans for the munitions factories.
Factory work proved something of a difficulty: the nearest factory was so far away, and the bus service now so sparse, that it was almost totally impracticable; Florence, easily depressed in any case, was almost in tears at this obstacle. It was Grace who suggested the WVS. ‘Mrs Lacey, she’s my Land Army committee person, says they’re crying out for people still. I was thinking of doing it myself, but I do seem to be rather busy. It’s not paid, of course, but that won’t be a problem, and you could fit it round Imogen better as well.’
And so Florence presented herself to the Westhorne branch of the WVS and found herself greeted with immense enthusiasm by a very large woman wearing a Churchill-style boiler suit, and possessed of a booming voice and an impressive ability to inspire and direct the ladies come to rally to her cause.
‘Anything needed done, and we do it,’ she said to Florence. ‘No turning your nose up at anything, of course.’
‘No of course not,’ said Florence humbly.
‘Drive, I presume?’
‘Oh – yes. Yes I do.’
‘Splendid. Now then, what about canteen work? We always need people there. Got a large one at Salisbury, for the troops passing through on their way to Southampton. Can I put you down for that?’ Florence nodded. ‘It’s hard mind, on your feet twelve hours a day sometimes, and you get sick of the sight and smell of baked beans, but still. You get petrol coupons, of course.’
Florence loved the canteen work, loved its jollity and camaraderie; naturally finicky herself, she took a perverse pleasure in boiling up huge vats of beans and a totally unappetizing fish called snoek, spreading great stacks of bread and dripping, pouring out endless mugs of dark brown tea. When she wasn’t doing that she spent a lot of time making up ‘bundles for Britain’, parcels of clothes, mostly baby things, sent from America and forwarded to the wretched bombed-out families who found themselves not only homeless but devoid of everything except what they stood up in. The WVS were also charged with trying to find accommodation for those families: ‘Not easy,’ Florence reported to Muriel. ‘Do you know a lot of the children have never had their vests off, they keep them on all the time, until they grow out of them.’ Muriel said that was only what she would have expected.
Florence also did what she called Cupid work. Letters came in shoals to the WVS, from men at the front, requesting birthday cards be sent to families, flowers delivered to wives on anniversaries, and sometimes, heartbreakingly, finding out if loved ones were safe. ‘I haven’t heard from my girl for over a year,’ a letter would read, ‘could you get in touch with her, at number 7 Queen’s Avenue, and make sure she’s all right.’ Very often, the girl would be more than all right, merely weary of waiting and busy with war work of a rather ques
tionable kind; Florence would endeavour to extract a promise from her to write and keep morale high. She knew this was over and above the bounds of duty, probably not what she was supposed to do, but she found it impossible to simply walk away.
But what she liked best, and found herself doing quite frequently (being an extremely good driver and also rather brave), was driving one of the fleet of Queen’s Messengers, large vans, five per depot, to any spot near an air raid – usually Southampton – and delivering on-the-spot help to the bombed-out families. It could be dangerous; they often arrived before the raid was actually over, and had to park as near as possible to the bombed area. Frequently Florence sat in her van, looking at the blazing sky and listening to the incredible noise, and wondered from minute to minute whether she would survive.
‘They’re incredibly precious, these vans,’ said a voluntary woman (as Florence called them) in Salisbury, briefing her, ‘actually donated by the Queen. They have to be looked after like – well, like the egg in a cake.’ Eggs seeming quite as precious as vans at that point, it was a particularly good analogy. One van carried water, one clothing, one bedding, one food, and one a stove; they would wait for people to arrive in search of food, clothing and comfort.
‘They are so desperate, so grateful,’ said Florence to Grace, ‘and you just don’t know what to say. So mostly I don’t say anything.’
Knowing Florence’s capacity for saying the wrong thing, Grace thought that was probably just as well.
Jack was flown home to Addenbrooke’s Hospital in early December. Clarissa took the train up to Cambridge, shaking with fear at what she might find; twice she had to fight her way through the packed corridors to the lavatory to be sick. Spectres of Jack lying frail, near to death indeed, tormented her. She visualized him swathed in bandages, drips from every orifice, angry with her, hostile, dismissing her from his room, his very presence.
She presented herself nervously at the hospital, half expecting a hostile reception even there. A pretty young nurse told her to go along to see the MO before she tried to find Jack.
‘He’s marvellous, your husband,’ she said, ‘so brave and cheerful. We all think he’s terrific.’
The doctor was briskly sympathetic.
‘He’s in pretty good shape, in some ways. Amazingly fit, he’s fought back marvellously. There’s no doubt that he’ll make a full recovery.’
‘Oh,’ said Clarissa. Her heart lifted, she smiled at the doctor; she had not expected to hear such positive news.
‘However, you must prepare yourself for a shock. He has been very badly burnt. You may find it hard to accept. What is quite crucial is that you hide your feelings. Many months of painful treatment and surgery lie ahead of him. He needs every ounce of support you can give him. It would hinder his recovery to an appalling extent if he even suspected you found his appearance in any way shocking.’
‘Doesn’t he realize himself?’ said Clarissa. ‘Surely—’
The MO looked at her very intently for a moment; then he said, quite gently, ‘Mrs Compton Brown, we don’t allow them mirrors.’
Clarissa went slowly into the room where Jack lay. He was propped up on pillows; both his arms were swathed in dressings. One leg was slung up on a pulley.
‘Darling!’ he said, and his voice was surprisingly strong, ‘oh darling Clarissa. Is it really you?’
Two large tears rolled down his face. Clarissa went over to him, smiled into his eyes, bent and kissed his forehead.
‘It’s really me,’ she said, ‘and I love you.’
She sat with him for over an hour. She heard about the crash: ‘I was flying very low, this bastard was after me, firing away. I suddenly heard a loud rattling, got a very strong smell of petrol and I could hear my flight overseer on the radio telling me I’d got a hole in my side. Well, I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. I managed to climb again, and fired, and I did get him; but by then I was in trouble. There was some kind of an explosion. I don’t remember much for a bit, couldn’t see or anything. Then I realized my eyes were closed. I had to prise them open with my fingers, they were stuck. Next thing I knew, more darkness, more flames – and then I came to in hospital. Fraid I wasn’t very brave after that.’
‘That’s not –’ Clarissa’s throat contracted – ‘that’s not what everyone has told me.’
‘Well, they’re not going to tell you I’m anything but a hero, are they?’ said Jack. He smiled. ‘Oh darling, I can’t believe you’re really here. First I dreamt of you, then I prayed for you. I was ready for some miracle, for you to walk into the hospital, make it bearable for me.’
‘I would have,’ she whispered, ‘if they’d let me. I would.’
‘I know,’ he said and smiled again. He closed his eyes for a while, apparently exhausted. Then he said, ‘Sometimes when it was very bad, I was convinced you were there. I saw you, standing there, looking so bloody beautiful. I didn’t mind anything, the pain, the horror. I’d reach out for you, when they were changing my dressings, doing something hideous, and say “hold my hand” because I knew then I’d be able to bear it, and you’d hold out yours, and before I could get it, you’d gone.’
Clarissa bent her head; her own tears fell onto her hand. She swallowed hard. ‘That’s me all over,’ she said lightly, ‘never there when I’m needed.’
‘You’re always there when you’re needed. Whenever you can be.’
‘Oh, Jack, Jack, don’t –’ she said.
He reached out his hand, inside its bandage, and touched her cheek gently; the bandage was rough, she hated it. She forced herself to turn and kiss it.
‘And I dreamt about you,’ he said, ‘whenever I slept, which wasn’t often, they didn’t give me enough dope, they said they had, but they hadn’t, they didn’t know, they couldn’t. Christ, it was awful.’ There was a silence. Then he said, ‘Yes, I dreamt about you. It was always the pre-war Clarissa, in lovely clothes, saying funny, silly things, not the sensible, clever one who was there underneath. Very often I dreamt about our wedding day, God knows why. Only I wasn’t there, just you standing at the altar looking marvellous. And then the church would go up in flames and – Jesus, Clarissa, I’m sorry.’
He was really crying now, racking sobs; she tried to hold him, but the drips and the bandages got in the way. The tears flooded down his face; he blinked impatiently, tried to smile, to brush them away. ‘Sorry, darling, so sorry. Could you wipe them for me? And my nose.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Clarissa. It was the hardest thing she had ever done.
Later she sat, while he dozed; a nurse came in to see him. ‘He’s still very weak,’ she said quietly. ‘The doctor says not too long today. Can you come back tomorrow, or do you have to go back on duty?’
‘No,’ said Clarissa, ‘no, I’ve got a week’s leave. I’m staying at the hotel just down the road.’
‘Good. It will help him so much. He talks about you all the time.’
Later, he woke, was tired, fretful, pushing the feeding cup away when she tried to give it to him. He was still on an entirely liquid diet.
‘Probably better if you go now,’ said the ward sister, ‘bad for him to get too tired. But he’s better already than when he arrived, two days ago. He’s a terrific fighter.’
‘I know,’ said Clarissa, ‘that’s always been the trouble.’
Jack got very upset, clung to her when she said she was going. ‘Don’t leave me, darling, I’m so afraid of losing you again.’
‘I’m not leaving you,’ said Clarissa, ‘and I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t worry, darling. I promise.’
And then, she had to say it, had to clear it, took a deep breath and said, ‘Jack, the night before you went, when I wasn’t there, I was only in a raid, in a shelter. I couldn’t bear you to think—’
‘Oh Clarissa,’ he said, and his eyes were fixed on hers in an agony of love, ‘I knew there was a good reason, an explanation. I was irritated, that was all. You know how irritable I can be.’
>
‘Yes,’ said Clarissa, smiling at him again through her tears, ‘yes, Jack, I do know how irritable you can be.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she said, her voice a wail of animal agony as she talked to Florence on the telephone from the noisy cold hall in the hotel, ‘you don’t understand, Florence, it’s awful, it’s terrible, I don’t know how we’re going to bear it. It’s his face, his lovely face, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t realize, it’s just not there any more, Florence, hardly any of it. It’s all been burnt away.’
The MO talked to her for longer the next day.
‘I’m sorry not to have prepared you more for it,’ he said, ‘but there’s so little that can be said. It’s still a terrible shock.’
‘It’s horrible,’ said Clarissa, simply, ‘I know if he knew he’d rather be dead.’
‘Mrs Compton Brown, you’d be surprised at how people don’t actually prefer death. It’s a pretty tough alternative, you know. And your husband is a fighter. If he hadn’t been, he would have been dead by now anyway. He’s a brave and clearsighted man. He’ll come through this.’
‘For what?’ said Clarissa. ‘Tell me what he’s coming through for? A life where everyone finds him repulsive. Where he won’t be able to go out even, without people staring, looking, avoiding him.’
She was angry, furious with the doctor, in lieu of anyone else; she would have found it quite easy to hit him.
He was clearly used to it. ‘Not repulsive, Mrs Compton Brown. I think that’s going a bit far.’
‘I don’t,’ said Clarissa. ‘My husband was a desperately good-looking man. Now he is repulsive. It’s perfectly simple. How can he work, even?’
‘What did he do? Before the war?’
‘He was a stockbroker.’
‘Well, I didn’t think looks were a prerequisite for stockbroking.’
‘No,’ said Clarissa, ‘they aren’t. Not exactly. But who’s going to want to sit across the desk from someone they have to avert their eyes from?’
Forbidden Places Page 36
