‘No. No you don’t.’
‘What Florence said,’ he said suddenly, ‘that was what Sunday was about. Partly. And partly because I don’t know about your marriage.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I walked away.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace uncertainly.
‘Listen,’ he said, sitting down, taking her hands, ‘it’s dangerous, what’s going on between us.’
‘Ben—’
‘No, listen. You’re – well, you’re lovely, I think. I’m lonely and I miss Linda, and I could – well, I could anyway. And I think you could, too. But your husband is away, he’s been gone a long time, you don’t know what you feel. Except you’re lonely too. Aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace. Her voice was unlike itself, shaky, strange.
‘And then I’m not like you, or your husband, or any of you. I’m – I’m like Florence says. From another background, another class. That makes it worse. More difficult. Doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’ The same strange voice.
‘It does, Grace, I think it does.’
‘Ben, please let me try and—’
‘Explain’ she had been going to say, but he put his finger suddenly on his lips.
‘No, don’t. Least said, soonest mended, Mum used to say. Very original.’ He smiled. ‘We’ve got a nice friendship, Grace. It’s – special what we’ve got. It means a lot to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘And to me.’ She managed to smile back at him, and then walked quickly out of the room. In spite of what he had said about her being lovely, things being dangerous, she felt unhappy and foolish and for some reason totally hopeless.
Chapter 22
Autumn 1943
Clarissa drove into the car park at the Queen Victoria Hospital and checked her appearance in the mirror. She looked all right, she thought, stroking on some lipstick, spraying on a great cloud of Joy perfume, putting her hat on out of sheer force of habit. But God, she was sick of being in uniform. The minute she got home, she would change.
She looked at her watch; it was quite late, after nine, but she had suddenly got forty-eight hours’ leave, arrived in London from Dartmouth, and on an impulse decided she would go and see Jack. She phoned her friend Bunty Levinson, asked if she could borrow her car; Bunty, who was having what she called a divine war, and always seemed to have an endless supply of everything including petrol coupons, had said yes of course and Clarissa had picked it up and driven straight down to East Grinstead. Jack would be so pleased to see her, and she could put up at a bed and breakfast for the night. People could always find room for Wrens.
Jack had just completed another satisfactory course of treatment; his spirits were rising daily. Clarissa could see – and indeed he could see, had admitted he could see – that he didn’t look even remotely as he had once, but the improvement was enough to make him suggest dinner with her in London, not East Grinstead, the next time he was out. The nose at least resembled a nose – nothing like the fine, aquiline one that had once been there, but a nose nonetheless, however small and stubby – and a grafting on his upper lip had helped the shape of his mouth. And then of course she had grown accustomed to it now, was ready for it; it was no longer a dreadful grisly shock each time she saw him, a shock to be read so clearly on her own face.
She was looking forward to seeing him, had actually missed him recently; it was a good feeling. The events of a year ago, the weeks in Dartmouth with Giles, seemed to have become a sweet strange dream. There were times still when guilt stabbed at her, but for the most part she viewed the episode with a detached, almost amused contentment. Her only real anxiety was that Giles would not view it in the same way.
She walked into Ward 3; it was deserted, apart from a couple of men lying quietly on their beds, reading. She left them, knowing by now they were destined for the slab next day, wanted some peace, and went in search of one of the nurses who could tell her where Jack was. As she went along the corridor, she heard a strange sound coming from one of the side rooms: a kind of rhythmic banging. She hesitated for a moment, then fearing it was one of the men in some kind of distress, opened the door.
On a hospital trolley, jammed into the small room, lay her husband. He was naked, apart from his pyjama jacket, and his body was rising and falling upon that of a nurse, also in an advanced stage of undress. Her long red hair spread across the paper-covered pillow, and her green eyes met Clarissa’s in an odd blend of embarrassment and triumph.
The words Clarissa spoke at that moment never ceased to astonish her, every time she remembered them, for the rest of her life.
‘Jack,’ she said, ‘get off that fucking bed immediately and get dressed. I’m going to take you home.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said laughing, kissing his poor, devastated, suddenly beautiful and beloved face, arching herself contentedly, the memory of the previous hour’s delight still heavy in her body, ‘I don’t know why I didn’t walk out on you. All I knew was I wanted you, more than I ever had in my whole life. I had to have you. Instead of that poor wretched unfortunate girl.’
‘She’s neither wretched nor poor,’ said Jack. ‘She’s actually got a very rich daddy, and she enjoys life on Ward Three like anything.’
‘I could see that. How many times have you had her?’
‘Never. Not till today.’
‘Liar.’
‘It’s true. But she has been very – good to me.’
‘I bet she has,’ said Clarissa.
And thought gratefully, fondly of Lieutenant-Commander Giles Henry, who had been so good to her and, without realizing it, to Jack as well.
‘You’ve been wonderful,’ he said.
‘No I haven’t. I’ve been quite – horrid. Sometimes. I can’t possibly blame you for – well, deciding to fuck her.’
‘I knew how you felt. It was only when I first saw my face in a mirror I realized how brave you’d been.’
‘Nothing brave about me,’ said Clarissa, ‘frightful coward I am. I was afraid of looking at you half the time. I tried to hide it, but—’
‘It’s quite normal, Caroline said.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘Quite normal. You mustn’t feel bad about it.’
‘Well I do. Jack?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do it again. Please, please, will you do it again?’
It was even better this time; sweeter, slower. Her body, starved of him for so long, the first desperate hunger slaked, was able to savour him, welcome him, take him to her. She felt him enter her, tenderly, gently, felt herself opening to him like some floating, drifting flower; her climax came slowly, first a distant echo, then a growing song, rising, falling, piercing fiercely. And as she rose, rose to ride it, as her body arched, sang, soared in pleasure, a terrible grief suddenly seized her and she lay there, throbbing, clinging to Jack and weeping uncontrollably, and he buried his head in the pillow and wept too.
Much, much later they sat drinking some horrible Algerian wine she had acquired in Dartmouth. ‘Oh for Clifford’s champagne,’ she said.
‘Why did you cry?’ said Jack.
‘I don’t know. Just – grief. For what was gone, what had been lost. Not just for us but for everyone. Why did you?’
‘The same, I suppose. Christ, I love you. Clarissa –’
‘Yes, Jack?’
‘Clarissa, I want to go flying again.’
It would have been terribly wrong to argue, to try to stop him. It was the ultimate triumph, for him, for McIndoe, for herself. That out of the pain, the horror, the humiliation had come the raw courage to risk it all again.
‘Of course you must go,’ she said.
Italy had surrendered. Grace, knowing Charles was almost certainly there, read the papers and listened to the radio reports of the invasion from Sicily, the biggest bombardment since Alamein, the heavy fighting, and wondered, fearfully, how long his luck would hold. But there was no teleg
ram, no stark messages of any kind. She returned slowly to her customary, emotionally suspended state. It had been a big turning point, everyone said so, Italy, Europe’s soft underbelly, as Churchill had called it, fallen; the Germans to be expelled from the country; 60,000 prisoners of war released. This really was the beginning of the end, everyone was saying so; no longer (again the Churchillian phrase) the end of the beginning.
Giles was coming home. Not only on leave, but on a long-term posting, with his ship, to Southampton.
‘No reasons of course,’ he had written to Florence, ‘but I’m coming. Three weeks’ shore leave and then – well, Southampton isn’t far from you. Is it? It’s time, Florence, my darling, for us to at least start being together. I don’t want any nonsense, any arguing. You must leave Robert and bring Imogen to be with me. I shall arrive at your house on a snow-white charger, or just possibly a naval truck, and take you away.’
Florence read this letter through, eyes blurred with tears. The longing for him, increased by the knowledge that she couldn’t break her promise, was intense. There was no point writing back, he would never get it in time. She would simply have to see him when he arrived, and convince him then. She bitterly regretted ever contacting him again; she should simply have left things as they were, letting him think she no longer cared for him. All she had done was subject herself to a renewal of terrible pain. She was making a new life for herself, she loved her work with the WVS, was planning to join the Red Cross after the war, possibly even train as a nurse. A life of her own, something that gave her self-respect, courage, would equip her far better to deal with Robert. She was prepared to stay with him, to try again, but she felt strong now, no longer helpless, trapped.
All she had to do now was persuade Giles that she still meant what she’d said. However difficult it was.
19 September. Italy (Not bad, thought Grace, only a couple of months late.)
My dear Grace,
Just a few lines, because we are pretty busy here, to let you know I am safe and sound in Italy. You will have read of the invasion, no doubt, it was pretty exciting, 600 guns on Italy’s toe. Some very heavy fighting, and a lot of men have been lost, but I seem to lead a charmed life, not so much as a scratch. I’ll write at greater length with more news when I have time.
We are really pressing onwards now; the general mood is optimistic, morale high. I am beginning to truly believe, my darling, that I shall be home with you again – one day. Not for a while, but I do believe it. Take great care of yourself. I love you.
Charles.
It was the first letter she had received that made her feel he really did love her. She worried about her lack of response to it.
Giles reached Southampton at the end of November. Florence was bathing Imogen when he phoned.
‘Oh God,’ she said, when she heard his voice, ‘oh Giles. Giles, please, please go away, leave me alone.’
‘No, Florence, I’m not going to. I’m coming to find you. Tomorrow.’
‘No. No you mustn’t, you can’t.’
‘Then you will simply have to come to me. All right?’
‘No. Not all right.’
‘Florence, can you honestly stand there and tell me you don’t love me?’
Florence hesitated for a moment, then she said, ‘No. No I can’t.’
‘Then I’m on my way. I’ve been dreaming of this for a whole year, ever since I got your letter. You can’t rob me of it now.’
‘No, Giles, no. I’ll – I’ll come to you. Tell me where to find you.’
‘I’ll meet you at the station. And then take you to a hotel. And love you.’
‘All right. Yes, I’ll be there. Not tomorrow, but the next day. Phone me tomorrow, and I’ll let you know when.’
‘You won’t stand me up this time, will you?’
‘No, Giles, I won’t.’
Nanny Baines said yes, she would have Imogen for a couple of days. Florence told her she had to make one of her trips to Southampton with the Queen’s Messengers to sort out some bombed-out families. Nanny was impressed by her war work, and immensely proud of her. ‘I like to think that the good upbringing I gave her is paying its dividends now,’ she said to Mrs Babbage. ‘You can’t beat a disciplined childhood.’
‘No indeed,’ said Mrs Babbage.
Florence managed to wangle a couple of days off from the WVS; she had earned it, Mrs Haverford said, she had been working extremely hard.
She delivered Imogen to Nanny Baines and went to catch her train. Shortly after she left, Robert phoned to say he was coming home that night on a seven-day leave. Muriel, flustered, told him what she knew: that Florence was going away on WVS business.
‘But she’ll be back in forty-eight hours, Robert.’
‘Isn’t it possible to get word to her, get her back?’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t,’ said Muriel, her voice deeply disapproving, ‘she takes her war work rather seriously, Robert, I’m afraid.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll just have to wait for her return, won’t I? I’ll stop off in London, check the house, arrive tomorrow instead. If that’s all right, Moo?’
‘Quite all right,’ said Muriel.
Ben was staying at the Mill House for forty-eight hours to see the boys; he came whenever he could, leave from his signalling course being comparatively generous. Against all logic, for she always waved him off smiling brightly but inexplicably heavy-hearted, Grace looked forward to his visits. His easy, open attitude to her, to everything in fact, had dissolved the tensions, the unhappiness of his first visit as if it had never been; as far as he was concerned, he said, they were friends – ‘best friends, even, I’d like to think.’ And yes, she said, that was exactly right, and she tried to think that indeed it was.
And in lots of ways it was: he was a good, a best friend, exactly the sort of person she needed in her life. It was not just that he was helpful, appreciative, used up some of the boys’ formidable energy; he was companionable, interesting to talk to, he made things fun. He and Clifford got on wonderfully well, played chess (and Ludo), went for walks, drank a great deal of whisky. Grace felt she could only slightly disapprove of the drinking; Clifford, lonely, starved of company for so long, was newly cheerful, energetic, was even talking of joining the church choir at St Andrews.
‘Can’t avoid everyone for ever,’ he said to Grace, ‘and I daresay a lot of them have forgotten why I disappeared in the first place.’
Grace didn’t feel too sanguine about that, but she pretended to agree.
The other thing Ben could do was cook: he quite often took over in the kitchen, making wonderful concoctions out of vegetables, dried egg and Flossie-cheese, as Daniel called it. Grace would sit knitting or sewing while he worked, or writing the endless letters necessitated by her Land Army work, watching him, usually to a back ground of music, and entertain forbidden fantasies. Every so often he would look up at her and grin and say, ‘All right?’ and she would smile back and say yes, of course she was all right, repeating the words ‘lovely friendship’ over and over in her head like a mantra.
In any case, she told herself, as she lay in bed, always sleepless when he was in the house, helplessly aware of him down the corridor, even without all the other huge obstacles that lay between them, Linda had obviously been incredibly lovely – and incredibly sexy. It was the height of arrogance to think that she could possibly take her place, in any way whatsoever.
‘I’m not staying,’ said Florence, from the depths of Giles’s arms, her face sore, tenderly bruised with his kisses, ‘I’m not. I have to go back. Tonight.’
‘No you don’t. I’ve booked us into this lovely hotel in the New Forest. With a four-poster bed. And I’m going to make love to you until you cry for mercy.’
‘No, Giles, I’m not staying. Well, only for a very little while.’
Florence’s cries, wild, almost unearthly, echoed through the room all through the dark November afternoon as Giles made love to her. He looked down
at her face, her thin intense face, as she settled, silenced finally, beneath him and said, ‘I love you, Florence.’
‘I love you too. But now I have to go home.’
‘No you don’t. We have hardly begun. You can’t leave me now. You can’t.’
‘Well – until the morning then. I suppose it’s too late now, too dark. I’d get lost.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’d get lost. Stay with me, and stay safe.’
That night, Nanny Baines went to her larder and looked at the spam that had sat on the shelf for three days. It seemed all right, but it did have a slightly funny smell. Well, there was a war on, you couldn’t be too fussy. She took it out and made it into a sandwich.
‘I must go,’ said Florence in the morning. ‘I must get back.’
‘You can go back later. Just for now you belong here with me. You’re going to stay with me, aren’t you, Florence? I love you and you belong to me.’
She looked at him curiously, intently. ‘I can’t believe you’re still saying that, after how I treated you, that you were still there, waiting for me. It would really have served me right if you’d found someone else, fallen in love with someone else.’
‘I could never love anyone else,’ he said with quite extraordinary fervour.
‘I can trust you, you see,’ she said, settling quietly now into his arms, ‘that’s what I love most about you. It’s the most important thing of all to me, trust. Trust and honesty. Knowing exactly where I am. Feeling safe.’
‘Yes of course,’ he said, kissing her. ‘And you are going to leave Robert and marry me.’
‘Giles, I can’t. You’ve simply got to understand. I’m only here because I wanted you to know I do still love you. But I can’t ever marry you. I have to go back to Robert.’
‘But why, Florence, why? I just don’t understand.’
‘Because he’s my husband,’ she said soberly, ‘and I’ve promised to stay with him. And he needs me. In his own peculiar tortured way he needs me.’
Forbidden Places Page 42
