Florence had turned up at the Mill House early in the day after her return, pushing Imogen and looking extremely shamefaced.
‘I can’t believe what a bitch I am,’ she said. ‘It suddenly hit me in the night – all you’ve done for me, Grace, and you tell me my husband did – did that to you, and all I do is run up your phone bill.’
‘Oh don’t be silly,’ said Grace, trying to pretend such a thought had not even entered her head. ‘I’m all right.’
‘You might not have been,’ said Florence, ‘and I feel dreadful. I’m so sorry, Grace. So terribly sorry. Are you sure you’re all right? Are you sure you shouldn’t see the doctor? Or the police, come to that.’
‘No,’ said Grace, ‘I – well, I really don’t want to. I’m fine, he didn’t – well, nothing actually – happened. In the end. Thank God. I just want to—’
‘Pretend it didn’t happen,’ said Florence soberly. ‘I should know. I spent years doing that. It’s the humiliation of it all, that’s much the worst thing. Feeling grubby and worthless. Do you know, even now, when I’ve decided to divorce him, I’m going to get him to name Giles, as co-respondent. So it’s quick and straightforward. I couldn’t stand up in court and talk about what he did. I just couldn’t.’
‘You haven’t – heard from him?’ asked Grace.
‘No. I presume he’s either at the house in London, or back at the barracks. Apparently he just went back to the Priory, picked up his stuff, told my mother he couldn’t wait any longer and went. She said he seemed perfectly normal. He really is mad, you know. Clarissa always said so. The worst thing is, he made me feel it was me that was mad.’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘I can see that.’
‘Well, as long as you’re all right,’ said Florence. She looked at Grace consideringly. ‘You do still look terrible, you know. The bruises are going yellow. Good thing Ben can’t see you at the moment.’
‘Florence,’ said Grace, trying to look unconcerned, ‘Ben is simply a friend. And the father of David and Daniel.’
‘All right,’ said Florence, with a shrug. ‘Have it your own way. Pretty nice friend to have, Grace, that’s all I can say.’
And now he was coming to stay for a few days, and she was feeling nervous, shy almost of the initial contact.
He was clearly feeling the same. He walked rather too casually down the platform, smiled at her and shook her hand without properly looking at her, hugged the boys with an almost excessive enthusiasm.
They drove home through the dark silent lanes without speaking. They didn’t need to: David and Daniel talked nonstop, about Christmas, the school concert, the football match with the school at Westhorne which they had won by four goals, the fact that they had a chicken for Christmas dinner, that Clifford had got hold of a bottle of whisky for him and Ben, that they had all made some ginger beer, that the house looked really nice and, most exciting of all, Charlotte was having puppies. ‘Any minute,’ said David. ‘Her stomach’s huge, bursting – they’ll be here for Christmas with luck.’
‘I do hope they won’t,’ said Grace. ‘I’ve got quite enough to do without having the kitchen turned into a labour ward.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Ben, ‘and who’s the lucky father?’
‘Don’t ask,’ said Grace. ‘She got out somehow, and Mr Tucker rang up to say he’d found her with his sheepdog in the barn, both of them looking very pleased with themselves.’
‘Should be rather nice,’ said Ben. ‘I prefer mongrels myself. Not too keen on thoroughbreds.’
He grinned at her for the first time, and she felt better, less tense.
‘I’ve got to go to the church after tea,’ she said, ‘to play at the blessing of the crib. Sorry.’
‘Don’t say sorry,’ he said. ‘Can I come?’
‘Of course you can, if you want to. David’s coming, aren’t you, David?’
‘Yeah, because Elspeth’s doing some stupid solo,’ said Daniel.
‘Shut up,’ said David and reached out and cuffed the side of his brother’s head.
‘Shut up yourself,’ said Daniel and punched him in the side.
‘Boys,’ said Clifford, ‘not at the table.’
Ben’s eyes met Grace’s. ‘They seem fine,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, understanding at once, ‘they seem to have come through it all right. Not too bothered.’
‘Bothered by what?’ said Daniel.
‘Whether I’m going to give you your presents or not,’ said Grace. ‘Now clear the table for me, it’s nearly time to go.’
The service was very sweet. Grace as always found her eyes filled with tears as the carols were sung, the lessons read and the children grouped round the crib, gazing at it, their eyes large, their imaginations seized by the simple, peaceful magic of the story.
Clifford had come with them, and stood next to Ben, singing staunchly and rather beautifully: a few people smiled at him, albeit frostily. The Christmas spirit, Grace thought, whether you believed in it all or not, really was a most potent force for the good.
Elspeth sang a verse solo of ‘In the Deep Midwinter’, and David listened scarlet-faced, his eyes fixed on the floor. Ben, noticing, met Grace’s eyes and winked at her.
It was very dark walking home; they had their torches, but it was a freezing, cloudy night. David was ahead with Clifford, and Grace, her hands in her pockets, was walking determinedly just a little too far apart from Ben.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you’ll end up in the ditch. Take my arm.’
She wished the journey could have lasted for hours.
Clarissa and Jack had come down to spend Christmas with Florence. She had begged them to come, to cheer up what would otherwise have been a rather bleak occasion. Giles was not allowed leave. ‘I had those three weeks,’ he wrote, ‘and we have the rest of our lives together. I suppose we can survive one last Christmas apart.’
‘I’m not sure if I can, though,’ Florence had said to Clarissa. ‘You’ve simply got to come.’
On Christmas Eve they all came over to the Mill House for tea.
‘Oh I love Christmas,’ said Clarissa, sinking into a chair by the fire, ‘wonderful, magical time. I really can almost believe, you know, that Father Christmas is up there somewhere in his sleigh, with the reindeer, bells ringing like anything.’
‘Are you telling me he’s not?’ said Ben, his face a study in innocence.
Clarissa laughed.
‘He is heaven, darling,’ she said later, out in the kitchen, helping Grace find some more drinks. ‘Absolute heaven. And so attractive!’
‘Is he?’ said Grace shortly.
Clarissa looked at her sharply and changed the subject.
Jack was very cheerful; he was going back on duty in January, to Rednal, in Shropshire, ostensibly training young pilots, but hoping, he said, for some action. Grace looked at his ravaged face and marvelled at his courage. And at Clarissa’s; she was sitting beside him on the sofa, holding his hand, which was draped round her shoulders. She looked lovely, in a scarlet sweater and black trousers, her fair hair swept up, her full mouth painted brilliant red, to match the sweater; Grace, in a much-mended blouse and slightly droopy skirt, felt as always shabby and drab beside her. She was full of gossip, of stories about London – ‘There’s a plague of rats in the sewers, no, honestly, don’t look at me like that, there is, it’s a whole new little war up there, they say they’ve killed a million just in the past few weeks … Bunty Levinson has joined a pig club in Kensington Gardens, too glorious, you pay a pound for a share in one and then you get a few chops or something when the poor thing finally rolls over … Do you know that when Suzy Renshaw got married last month, you remember her, Florence, apparently she had the sweetest little tea-cosy thing over her cake, because she couldn’t get icing—’
She was talking, performing even more than usual, seemed almost frenetically determined to keep the level of entertainment high; not to let the conversation steady into anything approaching
the sober or thoughtful. Grace could see Ben was very taken with her, was laughing at her more absurd remarks, swapping silly jokes with her, the sort that came out of crackers. Linda had probably been like Clarissa, she thought, sparkly and quick: and sexy too, no doubt, wonderfully clever and inventive in bed. She felt upset, the old familiar snarls of jealousy uncurling within her. The sensation made her feel more awkward, more silent still.
‘You looking forward to going back then?’ said Ben to Jack. He was very relaxed with them all, Grace thought, and then for the thousandth time hated herself, wondering why on earth he shouldn’t be.
‘Yes, hugely,’ said Jack. ‘I feel as if I’ve been in some kind of a cage for the past eighteen months. Useless, impotent.’
‘Hardly that, darling, at least,’ murmured Clarissa. Ben grinned at her, his dark eyes brilliant, and Grace hated her.
‘Do be quiet, Clarissa, don’t lower the tone,’ said Jack. ‘Ben was asking a serious question.’
‘I’d give anything to go back,’ said Ben.
Grace stared at him; she hadn’t realized he felt like that.
‘Really?’ said Jack.
‘Yeah. I feel like some woman, sitting there at Tidworth, sending and receiving bloody – sorry – stupid useless signals, while my mates are still out there, doing something.’
‘Ben, women are no longer confined to useless tasks,’ said Clifford firmly. ‘Look at these three, all doing the most marvellous things. I’m so proud of them all.’
But only Clarissa was doing something really positive, Grace thought, something exciting. She was now engaged in that most classic of all Wren activities, the one depicted in all the films, known as plotting, monitoring the progress of ships at sea: ‘It’s too thrilling. We all stand there like croupiers with our long poles, pushing our little ships about the board, and every so often some scrambled eggs come down and inspect.’
‘What on earth are scrambled eggs?’ said Ben.
‘Commanders and upwards. The ones with gold braid on their caps.’
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘We must go,’ said Florence, ‘Imogen is simply dropping. Look, everyone, doesn’t she look sweet? She’s had her stocking up for three nights now. Poor angel, I’ve hardly got anything to put in it.’
‘I’ve got some chocolate for her,’ said Clarissa, ‘I forgot to tell you, from the Americans. And some oranges.’
‘Oranges!’ said David, who had been listening quietly from a corner. ‘I used to like oranges, didn’t I, Dad? Me and Mum used to have peeling races.’
‘Then you shall have an orange,’ said Clarissa. ‘I’ll bring some down on Boxing Day. And for your brother, and your father too. For everyone. Now, Grace darling, here are some presents for you all, and a bottle of something for lunch tomorrow.’
‘Oh Clarissa, I haven’t got anything for you,’ said Grace miserably. She felt cast down, very much the poor relation.
‘No, but you’ve given us the most lovely start to Christmas, set it off with a real bang,’ said Clarissa. ‘Come on, Jack, darling, I have stockings to hang up.’
When they had gone, Grace went into the kitchen. She was standing at the sink washing up when Ben came in.
He smiled at her. ‘What a ridiculous woman,’ he said.
‘You seemed to like her,’ said Grace. She knew it wasn’t a very sensible thing to say but she couldn’t help it.
‘I did like her. I thought she was lovely. And obviously very clever too. But that doesn’t stop her being ridiculous. I liked him too. What a man. Going through all that and coming out the other side, and then going back to flying. No nonsense, no fuss. God!’
‘Yes. Yes, he’s very brave.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes there is. Come on. You can’t be miserable on Christmas Eve. It’s not allowed.’
‘Oh – I don’t know. I expect I’m just tired.’
‘You look tired,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t be silly. Doesn’t stop you looking pretty. Very pretty. I was looking at you. Your hair looked grand in the firelight.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She didn’t know what to say.
She looked up and he was smiling at her. ‘You’re a bit silly sometimes, you know,’ he said. ‘Very silly I’d say. Well, I’m going to play with the boys for a bit. Then I’ll come back and help you with the supper. All right?’
‘All right.’
She was about to go to bed after filling the stockings when she heard a yelp from the kitchen; she went in and saw Charlotte, panting hard, lying on her side, one leg lifted. Something dark and moist was protruding from her nether regions.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Grace, ‘it’s a puppy.’
The puppy emerged, still foetus-like, in its sac; Charlotte examined it, sniffed it, tore open the sack, bit through the cord, ate the afterbirth, all as if she had been most carefully trained to do so. She licked the puppy affectionately, settled it near her udders; had scarcely finished when her body heaved again, and another emerged. She didn’t seem to be suffering very much, nor did she seem to have to struggle to get it out.
‘Very much more efficient than we are,’ said Grace, watching in awe and a kind of tenderness. She stroked Charlotte’s head, made sure she had plenty of water, as the vet had told her, and settled herself for a long vigil.
By two o’clock it was over. Nine puppies, three russet-coloured, five black and white, one especially sweet, russet and white and especially small (‘We’ll keep you,’ said Grace), lay by their mother. Grace tucked a big blanket round them, told Charlotte she loved her, and went to bed.
She went down early. Charlotte was awake, sniffing at her babies; there was a lot of noise. ‘They’re hungry,’ said Grace sternly. ‘You have to feed them.’
A few of the puppies were having trouble getting at supplies; she knelt and lifted them carefully closer. Then she noticed one was missing. The little russet and white one.
She found it in the corner of the whelping box, cold and still. She picked it up and held it in her hands; its coat was very silky, its small face very determined in death.
‘Oh dear,’ whispered Grace, ‘oh dear. I’m so sorry.’
She moved nearer the boiler, as if the warmth might help the poor thing in its coldness, and stroked it with her finger; she was still kneeling there when the door opened and Ben came in.
‘Good Lord,’ he said, ‘a lying-in ward. Very suitable on Christmas morning. When did this lot all arrive?’
‘Last night,’ said Grace.
He went over and looked at them, stood smiling down at them.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘Another one. That didn’t make it.’
‘Ah. Let me see.’ He looked at the puppy, then at her. ‘You’re crying!’
‘Yes. It seemed so sad. Little lonely thing, here for such a short time, and then just dying, alone in the corner of a big, cold box. Sorry. It’s so stupid, isn’t it, when millions of people are dying, have died. Sorry, Ben.’
‘Don’t say sorry.’ He looked at her and smiled again. ‘I don’t think anything you do is stupid,’ he said. And then he knelt down beside her, and wiped away the tears with his finger; and then stared at her, intently, just like the day on the hill. Only this time he leant forward and kissed her. Gently, tenderly at first, little more than a touch of mouth on mouth; but then, slowly, almost stealthily, he parted her lips with his tongue, and she just knelt there, feeling it working, his mouth working, exploring hers, on and on, slowly, carefully, thoughtfully, and it was more extraordinarily powerful than anything she could ever have imagined, invading her head, herself, all her thinking, all her feeling, and still he didn’t touch her. And then finally he sat back on his heels and studied her face for a long time, his eyes moving over it as if he had never seen it before, her hair, her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her joyfully awoken mouth, and said quite cheerfully,
matter-of-fact, his dark eyes alight with amusement, pleasure, tenderness. ‘Well, that’s that, then. I’ve been and gone and done it now, haven’t I?’
By the evening she was beside herself: with pent-up excitement and pleasure, and a physical yearning she would not have thought she was capable of. They had not had another moment alone: she had moved through the day apart from him, hardly daring to look at him, a great undercurrent of emotion tugging at her constantly, insistent, strong. The boys had come crashing in almost as he had drawn away from her, shouting, exclaiming, overwhelmed with awe at the sight of the puppies; Clifford shortly afterwards, grumbling good-temperedly at the noise; and then there had been Flossie and the chickens to see to, a huge breakfast to organize for Charlotte – ‘Thank God for Flossie’s milk,’ said Grace – and after that the inexorable happy ritual of Christmas, breakfast, presents – David’s face when he saw the radio and Clifford’s watching it was something she thought she would remember for ever – and then church, and lunch.
Betty and Frank came for lunch, Frank bearing a bottle of port given to him by a grateful customer. ‘Goodness,’ said Grace, ‘we’ve got more alcohol even than usual this Christmas.’
Betty was a little quiet; helping Grace wash up after lunch, she said, ‘I hope you don’t have him here very often, dear.’
‘Who?’ said Grace.
‘Mr Lucas, dear.’
‘I don’t, because he’s posted at Tidworth, but why shouldn’t I anyway? He’s the boys’ father, they haven’t got a mother—’
‘Exactly, dear. That’s what I mean. What will people think, say, suppose it got back to Charles? He is your husband, Grace, and this is his house. And whatever must Muriel think?’
‘I – don’t know what she thinks,’ said Grace.
Forbidden Places Page 45
