He left early in the morning, after another long sweet night, back to Tidworth and then was immediately sent to Yorkshire, leaving Grace alone, trying not to think too much about what was happening to her, resolving simply to enjoy it, feeling for the first time since her marriage valued, important, desirable even. She was even glad that Ben was not there, so that she could study her feelings for him and the implication of him upon her life with at least a degree of detachment. She thought about him constantly, heard his voice, saw his face, felt his arms round her, his mouth on hers, his body pleasuring her with an immensely strong, physical vividness. Charles on the other hand had become a distant ghost, a shadow of someone she could scarcely remember. She would sit with his letters, his photographs, trying to summon him up, to make the comparison fairer, the scales more evenly balanced, but it was useless: he remained out of focus, a distant, hazy figure, with no real substance or quality.
The winter was exceptionally cold; London and other cities were beset by freezing fog. Life seemed particularly joyless everywhere; the drought of the summer before and now the intense frosts meant that green vegetables and even potatoes were increasingly rare. The war, with its shortages and hardship, seemed to have gone on for ever, depression was almost tangible. At the end of January, there was a spate of bombing on London and more a week later. Mr Churchill was heard to remark with his usual humour that it was just like old times. Then, as the days grew just slightly longer and the air a little warmer, a sense of almost tension grew in the country. There was talk, rumour, informed gossip that the invasion, so long awaited, was finally to happen: men recalled from the battlefields of Egypt, Tunisia and Italy were joined by raw young recruits for intensive training. Ships had been gathering in harbours all around the southern coast for many months.
Grace, as weary of it all as anyone, scarcely noticed that Clifford was increasingly depressed until she heard him moving about downstairs very late one night, and afraid he might be ill went down to investigate. He was sitting by the boiler, huddled in his threadbare dressing gown, drinking whisky; she went over to him and gave him a hug and realized to her infinite sadness that he had tears in his eyes.
‘Darling Clifford, what is it? What’s the matter?’
He was resistant to explanation at first, said he was just feeling a bit low, obviously afraid of hurting her feelings; then suddenly he began to talk. He was lonely, he told her; desperately and profoundly lonely. He missed his old life, his old friends, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, he missed Muriel.
‘I know she’s difficult, often rude and so on, and not at all nice to you, and that grieves me very much. But I was very fond of her. We lived together for over thirty years, you know, Grace, had children together, brought them up, saw them marry. That is a very close bond. Almost unbreakable, I have to say.’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, her voice hardly audible even to herself. She sat stony-still, listening to Clifford’s tired, gentle voice as he talked, told her he regretted most horribly giving up everything and hurting Muriel so deeply.
‘Given the time again, I would have been more circumspect. Honestly, grand gestures are all very well, Grace, but I am not sure they are truly appropriate. There is great value in the old order, you know; in remaining true to what you have always known, the way you have always lived. Hypocrisy may have a price, but it is sometimes worth paying.’
He smiled at her suddenly, a sweet, gentle smile. ‘What I would have done without you, my darling, you and the boys, I really don’t know. And, oh dear, I must sound so ungrateful. Take no notice, these are just the ramblings of a foolish old man. Very foolish. Well, I’m going up to bed. Enough nightcaps for a week, I’ve had. Goodnight, Grace.’
‘Grace,’ said Florence, ‘I know it’s nothing to do with me, but are you – well, are you having an affair with Ben?’
‘You’re right,’ said Grace, anger sweeping through her, ‘it isn’t anything to do with you. How dare you even ask me?’
‘All right, all right,’ said Florence, ‘I’m hardly in a position to criticize, am I? I wouldn’t blame you, quite honestly.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace and sat down rather hard at the kitchen table.
‘Well, he is very attractive,’ said Florence, ‘very attractive indeed. And Charles has been gone for a long time. Honestly, Grace, there’s no need to look so stricken, there is a war on after all. Nothing’s like it used to be.’
‘No,’ said Grace, ‘no, Clarissa was saying something very similar. Actually.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Florence. ‘I’m not going to say anything to anyone. Certainly not to Charles when he comes home.’
‘Why did you – think that anyway?’ said Grace.
‘Oh – I just wondered,’ said Florence vaguely.
‘Your mother doesn’t – isn’t—’
‘Good Lord no. It would be so unthinkable for her, it really wouldn’t enter her head.’
‘Why so unthinkable?’ said Grace.
‘Well, because – because—’
‘Because he’s not been to public school?’ said Grace, deceptively quiet. ‘Not an officer? Gamekeeper class, is that it?’
‘Well yes, something like that,’ said Florence. ‘Not that I—’
‘Oh no, Florence, not that you would think anything like that, would you? I’m sure your lover is socially very suitable, isn’t he? Ben’s all right to have a fling with, to sleep with, that’s it, isn’t it? But obviously, of course, that’s all. I mean it couldn’t be anything more than that, anything permanent, could it?’
‘Well no,’ said Florence, looking at her in genuine astonishment, ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. How could it? How could it work? Unless you moved right away, went to live wherever he came from, but then you wouldn’t fit in there, would you? With his people? Don’t look at me like that, Grace, it’s true. Oh for heaven’s sake, let’s talk about something else.’
Grace suddenly stopped being indignant. Florence was too honest, too childishly transparent to take any real exception to. She spoke as she found, as Betty would have said, and there was, besides, quite a lot in what she said. Grace hadn’t really considered that side of their relationship before; she had been entirely concerned with the emotional problems, of being unfaithful to Charles, of worrying where it might be leading. It was true: if – if– she made any kind of permanent commitment to Ben, and she really wasn’t ready even to consider such a thing, life would be difficult in lots of ways, and they would have to find some neutral territory in which to build their lives. It was all very well at the moment, everyone being matey – or pretending to be – with everyone else, but it was a false situation, a false premise. Her own experiences of moving even slightly out of her class, of the difficulties she had encountered, were still vivid, and sometimes painful. The difficulties of the whole situation swept over her suddenly, hugely increased.
‘Oh God,’ said Grace, aloud, ‘oh dear God, whatever is going to become of me?’
But God did not reply. And there seemed no one else she could ask, with the possible exception of Clarissa; and Clarissa was back at Dartmouth and inaccessible.
From a prison camp in south Germany, via the International Red Cross, came the news of the death of a British officer. The details in the report of the discovery of his body by Corporal Brian Meredith, himself taken prisoner near the border, were a little fudged by the time they reached the authorities, but his army identity tag revealed him to be beyond any doubt whatsoever one Major Charles Bennett.
Chapter 24
Early Spring 1944
The worst thing was not knowing how to feel.
Shock, grief (genuine grief, thank God, she did experience, she had been so afraid she would not); guilt, terrible guilt, that she had been faithless, in love with another man, quite possibly even making love with him while Charles had died in some unimaginable horror, defending her and his country; and through it all, un bid den, unquenchable, the dreadful, treacherous tiny sp
ring of relief.
Gradually a story of sorts was pieced together. ‘Killed escaping’ had been the form of words used on the telegram, together with the inevitable expression of regret. Further details were not forth coming. The last real information was that he had been involved with his platoon in some heavy street fighting in a small Italian town, and with a handful of men had been taken prisoner, put into a truck under armed guard and driven off, presumably to a German prison camp. The chaos in Italy at that point, with the nation officially surrendered to the Allies but large sections of the army still loyal to Mussolini, the fighting fragmented but intense, and towns and villages falling slowly into Allied hands, made the garnering of definite information a near-impossible task. There was an unconfirmed report that Major Bennett had been seen escaping from the truck near the French-Italian border, but after that the trail had become fudged.
And now he was dead, he had been identified, and then buried by the German authorities. They were told they would be notified precisely where in due course.
A letter from his commanding officer told Grace he had been a brave man and a fine soldier, never flinching from anything, often putting himself in intense danger, admired by his men, popular with his fellow officers. He was a loss to the company and the regiment, and was being recommended for decoration.
Grace sat reading the letter and wondered how many others, identical in their platitudes, had been wept over by other widows like herself.
Clifford was terribly upset; he tried, with a most touching courage, to be brave, but she found him several times weeping, and he would sit up far into the night, drinking, reading and rereading the few letters Charles had written to him, looking at old photographs of him. She knew the worst thing must be the estrangement, the fact that Charles had rejected him, that Clifford had lost him twice; but she could see also the loneliness for him, and the impossibility of sharing his grief, to any proper degree, was dreadful. She had rung the Priory when the news came and had gone in the morning to see Muriel. She had been shocked, withdrawn, rejecting any words of comfort herself, but oddly gentle with Grace, had taken her hand, told her how brave she must be, and then, extra ordinarily, had enquired after Clifford, if he was all right.
Florence was devastated, crying intermittently, her face white and ravaged. Grace had not realized she loved Charles so much; an only child herself, she found it hard to imagine the bond between siblings.
Her parents came over later, towers of strength; her mother comforting and thoughtful, even offering to have the boys for a few days, her father sensible and practical, familiar with the grim procedures necessary to formalize Charles’s death.
Everyone was very kind. The boys were painfully quiet and good, tiptoeing about the house, doing all their chores long before they were told, making her endless cups of rather nasty lukewarm tea. They also with a touching, straightforward sensitivity that reminded Grace, rawly, of their father, seemed to know that they must help Clifford, and suggested interminable games of chess, found him concerts on the wireless to listen to, insisted he came for walks with them and Charlotte and her two remaining russet puppies that no one had been prepared to take on.
Miss Merton took Grace literally to her large bosom and held her, unembarrassed, while she had the one and only fit of protract ed, hysterical crying, and then quietly made sure all the children knew what had happened; when Grace came in the next time for music, there was a whole sheaf of posies on the piano, primroses, snowdrops, early pussy willow. Elspeth’s father came round, white with embarrassment and agonized sympathy, a large cheese under his coat, and told her she was to ask for any help she needed around the house or garden, he’d be pleased to do it. Mrs Babbage came every day for a fortnight to clean the house and do all the washing and ironing and refused to take a penny in payment, and Mrs Boscombe told Grace any trunk calls she wanted making, any time in the next few weeks, she’d not be noting down. ‘Least I can do, and I’m sure Mr Churchill would agree,’ she said firmly.
The house was inundated, inevitably, with letters of sympathy from Charles’s old friends and their parents, the very people who had most ignored and neglected her while he had been alive; she was amused rather than angered by this. Clarissa wrote, a letter of such sensitivity and perception it made Grace cry more than any other, finishing: ‘If you need me, or if there is any kind of a service, then I will be there, no matter what, and Jack will be with me.’
Grace had no idea what to do about a funeral; a conventional affair was obviously not in order, but she felt some formalization was necessary, some open expression of grief, of acknowledgment of Charles’s death, something that gave it dignity, that would bring some sense of importance to it and to his life. She talked to the vicar, who suggested a memorial service; she liked that idea, it gave her a focus, and she threw herself into organizing it, planning music, readings. She wanted someone to say a few words about Charles, but couldn’t think who: Laurence would have been the obvious choice, but he was dead too, it was clearly quite beyond Clifford, and she had no intention of asking any of the old guard. Then she thought of Clarissa: it was an unconventional, quirky choice, and not something women were usually called upon to do, but the more she tried to set it aside, the better an idea it seemed. She wired Clarissa at Dartmouth, fearing a letter wouldn’t reach her, and Clarissa wired back: ‘Touched, honoured, will try to deserve it. Best love. Clarissa.’
One of the most difficult problems was that of Clifford. Clearly he must come to the service, but there was a danger of Muriel being openly hostile. In the end, after several almost sleepless nights, filled with visions of Muriel flying at Clifford’s throat in the nave of St Andrews, she talked to Florence about it.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll deal with her. She usually does what I say. Anyway, lots of her old cronies will be there, she won’t want to do anything undignified.’
She was glad there was so much to think about, to do; it made it easier not to think about Ben. When she did, usually lying awake in the darkness, she felt violently ill, ill with guilt, with shame, and with a longing she crushed so determinedly that she became physically breathless. She had not dared to write to him.
It was a bright, windy March day when Grace sat in the front pew of the church, her parents on either side, the boys and Clifford next to them. Muriel sat opposite, with Florence and Imogen, ramrod straight, her face stonily controlled. Clarissa and Jack, both in uniform, sat behind.
There were a great many people in the little church, and the old guard had indeed turned out in force, Muriel and Clifford’s generation as well as Charles’s friends, mostly young women, all of them smiling graciously if slightly embarrassedly at Grace. They found themselves sitting with a rather broader cross-section of the local community than they might have expected, a large bunch of children from the village school, under the stern eye of Miss Merton, several farmers from quite far-flung villages accompanied by their wives, Elspeth Dunn’s father, white-faced and more ill-at-ease even than usual in a stiffly uncomfortable suit, Mrs Lacey and several of the county committee for the Land Army, groups of the girls themselves (some arriving on bicycles, others on farm vehicles), Mrs Babbage in her Sunday best with Mr Babbage beside her, ready with not just one but three clean handkerchiefs in his hand, Mrs Boscombe from the telephone exchange, her work left in the less than tender care of a brash new young assistant she had been assigned.
All there because they loved and cared for Grace and wanted to show her so. She looked round from time to time and the sight of them gave her comfort, courage; as the vicar entered the church, and John Stokes urged the organ into the glory of ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, she stood up and reached suddenly across her mother and took Clifford’s hand and gripped it very tightly, wishing to pass those things on.
It was not a very long service; they sang ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, the vicar said some prayers and gave a short address, the choir sang ‘Crimond’ most beautifully. And then Clari
ssa stood up, walked to the steps of the chancel, stood there, looking at them all for a moment. She was clearly genuinely moved; there were tears in her dark eyes, she had to struggle to speak. But once she began, her voice, more musical in its task than usual, gained in power, in confidence, and Grace sat listening to her in something close to awe.
‘Some of you’, she said, ‘knew Charles Bennett, and some did not. You are all here to honour him, and his life, and that is what matters. I knew him very well, most of his life indeed: at one stage I was going to marry him.’ She paused, the echo of a smile on her mouth. ‘That we remained friends, good friends, although that did not happen, is proof of his wonderfully level, positive approach to everything. There are several people here today who knew and loved him very well: his parents, Muriel and Clifford, his sister, Florence, and of course his wife, Grace. To them must go our most heartfelt, our most tender sympathies. Others too, who knew him as a small boy, who cared for him, taught him, watched him grow up, will find his loss very hard. There is so much loss at the moment, so much pain, so many young men cut down in the prime of their lives. This does not make any individual loss easier to bear. But the quality of a life is what matters, and the quality of Charles’s life was very fine. A generous friend, a loving husband, a marvellous and brave officer, an exceptionally devoted son—’
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