‘Mrs Compton Brown,’ said Major Norris, ‘I wonder if you are perhaps prejudging everyone. All these people you say will find your husband repulsive. Surely we all have rather finer feelings than that? Your husband has been wounded, defending his country. He is an immensely brave man. He has won the DSO. Can’t you trust people to remember that, to adjust their reactions because of it?’
‘Major Norris,’ said Clarissa, ‘I am a very realistic woman. I think you’re living in a fool’s paradise. People will remember for about six months at the most that my husband has been wounded, as you put it, maimed I would call it, defending his country. After that – well, I don’t know. Listen, I love him, very much. And I find him repulsive. I expect that horrifies you, but I’m trying to be honest. I want to help him and I don’t know how.’
Major Norris looked at her for a while in silence. Then he said, ‘I can understand how you feel. I know what a dreadful shock you have endured. And I think your honesty is – courageous. But I still think things are not as bad as you imagine. And they will be better. We are sending a lot of these chaps to Archibald McIndoe. You’ve heard of him, I expect?’
‘No,’ said Clarissa.
‘He’s a plastic surgeon. Brilliant. He has virtually rebuilt faces. I would think Squadron Leader Compton Brown would certainly qualify for his attentions.’
A bolt of hope went through Clarissa, bright, strong. ‘You mean – he could actually restore Jack’s face? As it was?’
‘Oh no,’ said Major Norris, ‘I don’t want to mislead you. It would be a great improvement on – on what you have seen at the moment. But nothing, of course, could restore your husband’s face to what it was.’
It was a very long week. Clarissa felt as if she was living in some ghastly, hideous nightmare; visiting Jack every day, smiling at him, pretending everything else was all right, forcing herself to kiss him, to tell him she loved him, when every time she looked at his face, with its dreadful, blunted parodies of features, she felt physically and violently sick. She kept hoping she would get used to it, cease to see it so vividly, mind it so much, and by the end of each day, each visit, she had begun to accept it at least a little; but then next morning, confronted by it afresh, the revulsion resurfaced. She was deeply and horribly ashamed of herself for feeling as she did; she was clearly, she thought, hideously shallow, fickle, frivolous. She felt sure that Grace would not have reacted in this way, had Charles been similarly affected, or even Florence; they would have looked calmly past the physical horror to what mattered, to the person beneath.
On the third day Jack had suddenly smiled at her, said, ‘Darling, it’s making me all upset, your being here with me.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ she had asked lightly.
‘I mean I want you. Desperately. My senses seem to be working just fine. I had the most enormous erection last night, remembering you, and how you looked and smelt when you came into the room. It was quite reassuring in a way. I don’t know that I can wait until I get home. I wonder if we could—’
‘Oh darling, of course we couldn’t,’ said Clarissa quickly. ‘Sister would be in here in a trice, and what about your drips and things?’
She had to excuse herself, go out for a while, sit in the hospital garden and smoke a cigarette. The thought of lying in bed beside Jack, of him kissing her, making love to her, made her feel so desperate, so terrified, she wanted to run away. And the worst thing of course was how alone she felt in all this. How could she tell anyone, anyone at all, that she found the husband she was supposed to love so much, had professed to love so much, quite literally revolting?
She returned to Dartmouth with a sense of huge and terrible relief as if she had escaped from some room filled with vile fetid air into a fresh wind-swept landscape. Jack was upset at her going, but accepted it; he knew she could do nothing else. She was an officer in the Wrens, and a wounded husband was in no way acceptable as a reason for resigning. It was a fact of life; men were wounded every day, there was a war on, everyone had to get on and make the most of it. She threw herself back into her work gratefully, deliberately exhausting herself, taking on extra projects, extra loads, so that by the time she fell into bed she could escape into sleep for a few hours at least. Even then, there was no rest; Jack’s face haunted her. Sometimes she dreamt that he was still all right, that it had all been a mistake, that he had been lying there on his pillows just as he had been, smiling at her; at other times she saw it, the new face, pressing ever closer to hers, the new face with the strange tiny eyes and the non-existent nose, the awkwardly folded lips, and would wake up sweating and more than once yelling, ‘No, no, no.’
But even that was better than the other nightmare: the one that she couldn’t ever wake from.
As she sank down at her desk the first morning back, her mind turning, like an alcoholic to the bottle, to more imminent, more soluble problems, May’s face appeared round her door.
‘Welcome back, Duchess. Someone was looking for you last night. Talk about handsome. Name of Henry. Lieutenant-Commander Giles Henry to be precise. Just arrived here. Says you’ve never met but you’ll know who he is. If you haven’t got time to make him feel at home, I certainly wouldn’t mind helping out.’
‘Goodness,’ said Clarissa, ‘how nice. Tell you what, May, we’ll share him.’
‘Once you’ve seen him,’ said May, ‘you won’t want to share him. Not with anyone. Not knowing you, Duchess.’
Chapter 20
Autumn–Winter 1942
Clarissa spent a lot of time wondering if it showed. Her rottenness, her duplicity. She didn’t think it did; catching sight of herself occasionally as she went about her duties, moving through her day, from her room at Warfleet to her small office, confronting crises, solving problems, she seemed to look exactly the same, indeed much of the time felt exactly the same, pretty, funny, often outrageous Clarissa, popular, admired, her advice sought both on and off duty, her opinions esteemed, her company valued.
And yet beneath it, the charming glossy exterior, behind the sweet smile, the sympathetic eyes, within the efficient, sophisticated woman lay, she knew, someone rather different. A manipulative, fraudulent someone, double-dealing, faithless, worth less, guilty of a double betrayal. She crept up on the other Clarissa, this creature, haunting her days, disturbing her nights; she would wake, sweating, at three in the morning, her stomach churning, forced to confront her. She disliked her intensely, hated her at times – and yet she could not get rid of her. She needed her. She needed her to survive.
It had begun so charmingly, so sweetly: she had telephoned the officers’ mess, left a message for Commander Henry, and he had invited her to have a drink with him the next evening.
And she had walked into the bar, still weary, still shocked from her week at Jack’s bedside, and looked at him, and he at her, and that had been that. Not love, of course not love, but a violent, almost shocking attraction, a recognition in each of them that the other had exactly, precisely what they wanted, and moreover that the circumstances and their respective states of mind meant that they were absolutely ready to offer, to share, to enjoy it.
They had danced around it for a while, of course; had put up the pretence that they were simply being sociable, friendly, easing one another’s loneliness. They sat in the mess talking for a long time, about the happy coincidence that had brought them there, their different wars, their experiences, their futures: about Florence – ‘She is my dearest friend,’ said Clarissa perhaps a little too firmly, but she was, she was; about Jack – ‘It must be so dreadful for him,’ said Giles, and yes, she said, it is, quite dreadful: so why was she even looking at this man, this beautiful man, wanting him, making the dreadfulness for Jack worse? And he was beautiful, quite extra ordinarily so, not in the same way as Jack, that would have been somehow better, would have stopped her short, made her realize exactly what she was doing, but perilously, differently beautiful, fair-haired (like her), dark-eyed (like her), with the most wonde
r fully musical voice and a graceful lounging body.
‘You know,’ she said as the third gin and French slithered into her consciousness, making her feel dangerously, confidently relaxed, ‘we could almost be brother and sister.’
‘Really?’ he said, ‘What an interesting idea.’
‘In what way interesting?’ she said.
‘Oh – it has a Shakespearean quality to it, that notion,’ he said, offering her a cigarette. She took it, cupped her hand round his as he lit it, aware that he would be able to smell her perfume, feel her hair falling forward.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, smiling, sitting back, blowing out the smoke, ‘I’m frightfully badly educated, you’ll have to explain.’
‘I’m sure you’re not,’ he said, smiling back at her, ‘but it’s all those twins, you know, in all those comedies, girls dressed as their brothers, other girls falling in love with them.’
‘Goodness, you make it sound so depraved,’ said Clarissa, laughing now. ‘All I meant was that we both have fair hair and brown, well brown-ish, eyes. It’s quite unusual.’
‘Indeed it is,’ he said, his brown eyes resting on hers, smiling into them, ‘but it looks a lot better on you than me.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Clarissa, ‘you look quite marvellous, I think.’
The thought came to her, swiftly shocking, that it was surprising that Florence should have engaged the attentions of such a creature. Florence was very attractive, of course, with her dark hair and her pale skin, and her wide gash of a mouth, and her figure was wonderful, especially her legs, and she had a certain rather stark chic, but no one could have called her pretty, nor was she conventionally charming, with her abrupt, uncompromising honesty.
For just a moment the thought was there; then she banished it again, thrust it fiercely from her head. ‘She loves you very much you know,’ she said firmly, as if to do penance for it, to make it absolutely and infinitely plain that she had no possible interest in him, other than as the best friend of the woman he loved.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, and there was an infinite sadness in his voice. ‘I’m afraid she has put me out of her life rather finally. And rather cruelly. Actually. You must know about it, surely.’
‘Well I do,’ said Clarissa, ‘I mean I know what she did. Standing you up that day. It must have seemed very dreadful. But—’
‘It was very dreadful.’ he said, ‘I have never known anything so dreadful. But – here, let me get you another drink. Or are you in a hurry?’
Clarissa shook her head rather weakly. ‘No. Well I have another half-hour at least.’
She looked at him as he stood at the bar, at his tall body, his sloping shoulders, his long legs, saw him turn his head and smile at her in apology for the delay, oh God, that lovely, lovely smile, and resolved that when he got back to her she must explain about Florence, about why she had done what she had done that day. She must. Before this thing went any further.
‘Listen,’ she said, as he settled beside her, and she heard her voice talking fast, urgently, as if in some way to save herself from – what? ‘Listen, there’s something you have to know about Florence. Something important. She couldn’t meet you that day. She really couldn’t. Imogen was ill, very ill, in hospital – oh she’s all right now – and she simply couldn’t get word to you. She really, really couldn’t.’
‘Oh,’ he said. There was a long silence while he digested this; then he said, ‘So do you think she still loves me? Really?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Clarissa firmly, ‘really. I’m sure she does.’
Right. That should have done it. That would fix it. That would deal with that look in his eye as he met hers, the acknowledgment that he was as lonely and unhappy as she was, that he wanted her as she did him. Amazing what looks in eyes could do, she thought inconsequentially, waiting for the withdrawal from her, the swift excuse, the rush to the phone. She was ready with her own excuses, that she had a meeting to attend, work to catch up on (both true), that she was tired (untrue, how could you be tired with this amount of sexual desire soaring through your veins?), was looking round the bar to find someone else she knew – so that his departure would be less miserable.
But it didn’t quite work out that way.
‘I can’t accept that,’ he said, finally. ‘I can’t quite find that enough. Of course she couldn’t have come that day. If Imogen was ill, if she was in hospital. I can see that. But she could have written to me afterwards, surely, explained, we could have found another time. All I’ve had from her is silence. An awful, hard silence.’
Clarissa looked at him. ‘Giles,’ she said, summoning all her will-power, ‘Florence has had the most awful time, you know. That marriage of hers – so terrible. I’m sure – I’m absolutely sure – she loves you. Why don’t you write to her? Ring her?’
There. Honour satisfied. She couldn’t possibly have done any more.
But ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I can’t. I don’t want to. I’d rather leave it. I’m – well, I’m just beginning to get over it. Besides, I did write to her. She didn’t even answer. Not even a line, Clarissa. So let’s not talk about her any more. It just makes me wretched. Let’s talk about you. You and your Jack.’
‘Well, that upsets me,’ said Clarissa lightly, ‘so what about talking about something quite different? Like your life before the war. I love hearing about all that sort of thing. Theatres, auditions, first nights—’
‘Seaside piers, bottom of the bill, old ladies’ matinées,’ said Giles, laughing. ‘All right, I’ll give you the lowdown. What about dinner? Or what this place calls dinner.’
Clarissa hesitated. ‘Can’t. Not tonight. Sorry.’
‘Tomorrow? Thursday?’
‘Thursday would be lovely.’
She was lost already. Quite, quite lost.
Nothing happened at first. Of course. Well, it couldn’t. It wasn’t going to. He was, whatever he thought, the man her best friend loved. Well, presumably still loved. She, Clarissa, was desperately in love with her husband. Who needed her desperately. There was no question of their going to bed together. They were simply cheering one another up. They didn’t have long, he was leaving in a month or so, they were both lonely, both unhappy. And of course there was a war on. It would have been unkind, wrong even, not to have gone on seeing him, making him laugh, giving him happy memories. That was the creed, the philosophy everyone adhered to, worked with; you owed it to people, to give them happy memories. Those memories might be their last. It was the winter of 1942, the dark heart of the war; nobody could afford to give much attention to tomorrow, next week, next year.
She liked him, very much. He wasn’t really her type, too much like herself in fact. She’d been right about the possibility of their being brother and sister, and it didn’t stop at the looks. They were both amusing, a bit excessive, liked the limelight, sought, rather helplessly, the centre stage. They egged each other on, in jokes and funny stories, loved gossip, intrigue, were aware of one another’s capacity to engender it. They were wildly indiscreet, so indiscreet in fact that, as Clarissa said, no one could possibly suspect them of anything, not really. ‘If we had anything to hide,’ she said, kissing Giles affectionately on the cheek in the bar one night, ‘we simply wouldn’t be here. Behaving like this.’
‘And we don’t? Do we?’
‘No, of course not. Not really. Well, hardly anything.’
He smiled, picked up her hand, kissed it. ‘Hardly anything at all. I’m kissing you now, here, so that everyone knows I don’t need to kiss you anywhere else.’
‘Anywhere else on me?’ said Clarissa, laughing. ‘Or anywhere else in South Devon?’
‘Anywhere else in the world.’
‘I’d be very pleased to hear that, Commander. If it wasn’t just faintly insulting.’
‘Very hard to insult you, Second Officer.’
That Saturday they went down to Dittisham, and drank rather a lot of cider; they took the ferry over to Greenway and w
alked in the woods. Clarissa felt dizzy, reckless; she took Giles’s hand suddenly. ‘This has been such a lovely, lovely episode. I’ve adored it. Every minute of it.’
He sighed: a heavy theatrical sigh.
She looked at him, startled. ‘What was that about?’
‘That’s all I am to you, isn’t it, Clarissa? An episode. Not a lot for a man to be. An episode.’
‘Giles, don’t be silly I—’
‘I might just hurl myself into the Dart,’ he said, ‘right now. End it all.’
‘Oh Giles, really,’ she said laughing, ‘I thought you meant it.’
‘I did.’ He sank down onto the rather soggy ground, buried his head in his hands. She looked at him, alarmed, sat down beside him, put her arms round him.
‘Giles, please. Don’t be – I didn’t mean to hurt you – I—’
He lifted his head, looked at her suddenly, his eyes alight with laughter. ‘Haven’t lost my technique quite yet then,’ he said.
‘Oh you – you brute,’ said Clarissa, ‘breaking my poor innocent girlish heart –’ She started to shake him gently, laughing at the same time. He put up his hands to ward her off and fell over backwards; she fell on top of him.
And then she looked down at him, so lovely, so desirable, and had a brief, awful vision of Jack, of his mutilated face, and Giles too had stopped laughing, and lay looking up at her; and she bent and kissed him, lightly at first, then more and more hungrily, wanting him, writhing on top of him, feeling him harden against her, even through their clothes, and he was kissing her too, as hungry, as wanting, his mouth at the same time gentle; and then: ‘Christ,’ he said suddenly, pulling away, ‘Christ, this is awful, I’m sorry, Clarissa.’
And common sense, common sense and some sort of dignity repossessed her and she allowed herself to think that it had come from him, the first approach, for it was better that way, and she rolled off him, fighting down her desire, straightened her hair and her clothes, asked him for a cigarette.
Forbidden Places Page 37
