‘Nor can I,’ she said. ‘I mean, I feel the same.’
‘That’s probably enough for now, isn’t it?’ he said.
And ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s exactly right. It is enough for now. Quite enough.’
It all seemed, she thought, joyfully, guiltily, fearfully, too perfect to be true.
It was 19 June. The most dreadful summer storm in memory, only second to the one that had wrecked the Armada, was raging in France, threatening the precious construction of the Mulberry harbours. Not only the harbours themselves but the men upon them were in deadly danger, clinging to them at times with their bare hands. Waves nine, twelve feet high lashed the bridges for three days and nights; repair work was virtually impossible, although the attempts went on. Small boats, the only ones usable in the circumstances, were run constantly alongside the harbours in the desperate conditions, rescuing the men.
Involved in this mission, displaying a calm, almost humorous courage in the darkness and the screaming wind, Robert Grieg risked his life over and over again.
Chapter 27
Late Summer 1944
Muriel looked at Florence across the breakfast table, her nostrils flaring just slightly in the way that indicated a particularly high level of intent, and said, ‘Florence, it really is time.’
‘What for, Mother?’ said Florence wearily. She had a long day ahead of her and hadn’t got home until eight the night before; her head ached, her eyes were sore, and her skin felt tender. She looked at herself briefly in the mirror and thought what a good thing it was that Giles didn’t have to see her now, with her gaunt face, sallow, papery skin and dull, stringy hair. He’d leave her anyway.
‘For that girl to go. With that child of hers. I’ve been very patient—’
‘Mother, you have not been patient at all. You’ve enjoyed an enormous number of extremely nice meals, in a beautifully clean house,’ said Florence.
‘Possibly, yes, and had to put up with an hourly assault on my ears, and to share my home with a runny-nosed guttersnipe who calls me Big Nan,’ said Muriel. ‘And that’s not funny, Florence.’
‘I think it’s funny,’ said Florence, but the twitch at the corners of her mouth that she had not been able to control had gone, suddenly, and she was flushed, her eyes bright. ‘I think it’s pathetically funny you should think that was something to put up with. Actually. When I think of the real hardship I see every hour of every day. Jeannette is part of this family now, I’m very fond of her, and Imogen loves her. Now I’ve told her she’s got to leave when – well, when she’s found somewhere, and until then I will not turn her out onto the street.’
‘Florence, that’s not quite the point. Is it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do. Robert insists that she goes. Otherwise he threatens to remove Imogen from the house.’
‘He can’t,’ said Florence sharply. ‘He’s in France in the first place, and in the second, he’s got nowhere to take her.’
‘His mother would take her. She has written to me and said so.’
‘The old bitch!’ said Florence. ‘How dare she! I hope you told her to take her interfering nose out of our affairs, Mother, and if you didn’t I want to know why. And why you didn’t tell me this before—’
‘Florence, really! It was kindly meant. And that is not the point. Robert is a powerful and strong-willed man—’
‘He’s a bully,’ said Florence briefly.
‘So you say. I have seen no evidence of that myself.’
‘Mother!’ said Florence. ‘Mother, really. Why do you think I—’
She stopped. Disloyalty to Robert was going to serve no purpose now. She had to make a life with him for Imogen’s sake; had to be positive, had to be brave. It was a bleak, if not terrifying prospect, but there was no alternative.
‘Yes, all right,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll talk to Jeannette today. Just let me—’
‘About what?’ said Jeannette, coming into the room. ‘If it’s them blankets, I can’t get them dry in this weather. More tea, Mrs B?’
‘No thank you,’ said Muriel, infinite chill in her voice. ‘It was rather too strong anyway, Jeannette, I do prefer it very pale. I’ve told you that several times.’
‘Sorry,’ said Jeannette, ‘can’t seem to get it to come out of the pot that way. Well, Florence, what was it then? And is it all right if I go out tonight? Ted Miller’s asked me to the pictures –’
Ted Miller worked at the farm the other side of Thorpe Magna. He and Jeannette had been going out for over a month now (he taking his turn, albeit unknowingly, with the armed forces) and he was generally seen as a very lucky man. Jeannette was regarded by the locals as the epitome of sophistication with her peroxided curls, bright lipstick and her unrivalled ability to jitterbug, and the existence of Mamie inevitably gave rise to strong rumours of other benefits. These were encouraged by Ted Miller – who had actually been told in no uncertain terms that Jeannette was not letting anyone inside her knickers again without a wedding ring.
‘Yes, that’d be fine,’ said Florence, ‘of course. I’ll be back early, but Jeannette, actually what I was going to say was that – well, the thing is, Jeannette, I’m going to have to ask you to—’
‘Imogen, give over,’ said Jeannette. ‘She’s tired, they both are, sitting up late last night they were, waiting for you. Tell you what – I’ll leave the housework till later, take ’em down to the stream near Grace’s place with a picnic, they can ’ave a paddle. Always cheers ’em up, that does. Now come on, Florence, spit it out. I’ve left Mamie sitting on the jerry, she’s got the runs after eating them strawberries, she’ll be in with it any minute now—’
‘Florence,’ said Muriel, ‘please! If you don’t I will.’
‘Will what?’ said Jeannette.
‘Jeannette,’ said Florence, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to—’
There was the roar of a motorbike from the lane, footsteps in the drive, a bang on the door.
‘I’ll go,’ she said thankfully.
When she came back into the dining room a minute later, she was paler than ever, her mouth drawn and almost grey. She sat down heavily on one of the chairs, looked at Imogen in silence for a while. Then she said, ‘Sorry. It’s all right, Jeannette, I didn’t want to say anything important. Maybe you’d better take the children straight away. I’ve got rather a lot to do today, I find.’
‘Florence,’ said Muriel, ‘what on earth is the matter with you?’
‘Nothing’s the matter with me, Mother,’ said Florence, ‘but that was a telegram. Robert’s been killed.’
She felt terrible; she would not have believed how terrible she felt. Guilt filled her, made her physically sick. She tried to remember the beatings, the pain and the fear, Robert’s face as he knocked her head from side to side, the pain of his feet in her stomach, the dreadful grief of losing the baby, the psychological terror he had waged on her since, and she could only think of how she had deceived him, loved, made love with, another man, borne that man’s child, how she had told her mother Robert was a bully, been about to say more, even as he lay dead.
And he had died a hero, displaying an unbelievable courage, it seemed, was undoubtedly to receive a decoration. He had died in the great storm; later she was to learn that he had been knocked out of the small boat he was in while rescuing his men, lost in the darkness and the waves, untraced for days until his body had been found washed up on the beach several miles away. He had been an inspiration to his men, she was told, a brilliant soldier and an instinctive leader. That made her feel worse, much, much worse, convinced that she was to blame for his behaviour to her, that beneath the flawed creature she had been married to had been a fine, good man. She wondered how he might have thought of her, as he died, this hero, as some faithless creature who had failed him, never been the wife he wanted. She got out the last letter he had written her, and read it again and again, weeping tears of remorse, of self-denigrat
ion. He loved her, he had said, he was going off happily, hopefully even, knowing that when it was over they would start again, make a new life. She wondered whether he meant these things, whether he believed them himself, and decided that he did. She had never replied to that letter, nor to any of them; she was a useless, worthless woman who had been a useless, worthless wife. She had married Robert deliberately, cold-bloodedly even, knowing she was not properly in love with him, and she had got her just deserts. She felt no sense of relief, no thought that the nightmare that had haunted her for so long was over: merely remorse and, extraordinarily, sadness.
‘Florence,’ said Grace, almost severely, ‘you have to stop this.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You did your best for Robert—’
‘No I didn’t, I didn’t—’
‘Florence, you did. He beat you up, for heaven’s sake. And you never betrayed him, never told anybody.’
‘No, but I had an affair with someone else. Had a baby that wasn’t his. That he knew wasn’t his—’
‘Yes, all right. No one could really blame you—’
‘You did. You blamed me.’
Grace stared at her, flushed. ‘Yes. Yes I know. I’m sorry. But I didn’t understand. I – well, I was wrong. Anyway, you were going back to him, you’d told him, he knew that. He probably died as happy as it was possible for him to be. God only knows what that was. You’ve just got to stop berating yourself.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Florence. ‘I know you’re right. I’ll try. It’s just so terrible the guilt. You don’t know.’
‘But I do,’ said Grace. ‘I really do know. I still feel it. Even though Charles is – is dead. Honestly.’ She looked at Florence. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be rid of it. It haunts me.’
‘But there’s one huge difference,’ said Florence, ‘Charles never knew.’
‘And another huge one, which makes me worse than you,’ said Grace quietly, ‘Charles wasn’t cruel to me.’
There was a long silence. Then Florence said; ‘I’ve got to go to London. To the house. Get papers and things. Will you come with me?’
‘Every time I come here,’ said Florence, as they stood in the ghostlike drawing room, its furniture shrouded in dustsheets, ‘I’m amazed it’s still standing.’
‘It’s a very big house,’ said Grace. ‘Very grand.’
‘Yes. I can’t wait to get rid of it. It’s so full of horrible memories. Well’ – she added, and sighed, remembering the night she had been there with Giles – ‘well, and the occasional nice one. Anyway, it’s not what I want.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. What I feel I can’t do is go running to Giles saying come back, come back, I do love you after all.’
‘Why not,’ said Grace, ‘when he loves you so much, must be so unhappy?’ thinking even as she spoke how horribly easy it was to sort other people’s lives out, to find simple answers, how impossible to do that to your own.
‘Oh, it’s so hard to explain. I’ve done it once. I can’t do it again. It seems so arrogant.’
‘I don’t think he’d see it that way,’ said Grace, ‘I think he’d just be pleased. Otherwise he’ll be thinking you don’t love him. That’s much worse.’
‘Maybe. But I keep thinking maybe he won’t even care any more. I’ve put him through such a lot. I love you, I don’t love you, I want you, I don’t want you. Poor chap, what can he possibly make of it all? And it’s not fair, he’s always been so absolutely loyal and patient with me. I don’t deserve him. Any more than I deserved—’
‘Florence,’ said Grace sternly, ‘don’t start on that one again. Please.’
‘No, all right. Anyway, it’s irrelevant at the moment,’ said Florence, suddenly brisk, firm, ‘I don’t have the faintest idea where Giles is, whether’s he’s well, I don’t know anything. Now we’d better get going. I probably won’t be long. I just need to find all Robert’s personal stuff, his papers, our marriage certificate, stuff like that. And I think I’ll take a few of my clothes, if the moths haven’t eaten them away. They’ll be a bit dated, but I don’t think the residents of the Thorpes will know that, do you?’
‘Probably not,’ said Grace.
It was a hot day; the house was stuffy. London was like a ghost town; emptied of nearly all military personnel, most of the cafés and restaurants closed, empty taxis in the streets, a spirit of depression almost tangible. People had had enough; while the much-vaunted and dreaded reprisals for the D-Day landings had not been on the scale expected, there was still the ever-present fear, the misery of the attacks from the V-1 flying bombs, the new damage to buildings, streets, trees that had only just begun to recover. Everyone was patently war-weary, but still resigned and immensely brave. The taxi driver who had taken Florence and Grace to Sloane Avenue was cheerfully pragmatic.
‘If you’re out and you can ’ear one of the doodle bugs,’ he said, ‘you’re all right. If the noise stops, dive for cover. That’s when the bleeder’s coming down. Pardon my French.’
That evening they sat in the kitchen eating some rather unappetizing bread and tinned fish that Grace had managed to buy, and drinking a bottle of superb claret from Robert’s cellar.
‘Still a few down there,’ said Florence, pouring the wine happily into two tumblers. ‘Oh, Grace, I do feel better. It’s coming here, remembering it all. How awful it was. Puts some reality into it all. Thank you for coming. Here’s to us. Us and the future. What do you think yours will hold?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Grace. ‘I really don’t. I’m frightened to think about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh because I’m so happy and yet there are so many ifs and buts –’ Her voice tailed off. She found it hard to talk to Florence; she liked her a lot better these days, but she was still wary of her.
‘Do you think you might – well – stay with Ben?’
‘Florence, I don’t know. How can I?’
‘What does he want? Have some more wine.’
‘No, I don’t want any more. I don’t really like wine. And I don’t know what he wants.’
‘You, obviously,’ said Florence. ‘Only, as I said, it won’t be that simple. You being so different. Don’t look at me like that, Grace, it’s true. It’s stupid to deny it.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Grace, with a sigh. ‘My mother would have a blue fit for a start.’
‘There you are,’ said Florence. ‘Now come on, have another drink, you’ve drunk quite a lot of it already for someone who doesn’t like wine.’
They went to bed quite early; Grace, unaccustomed to wine of any kind, let alone heavy claret, woke up in the middle of the night feeling terrible, with a raging headache and a churning stomach. She lay with her eyes closed, wishing the room would stop spinning about her; then rushed to the bathroom and was extremely sick.
She was kneeling on the floor by the lavatory, wondering how on earth she was going to get back to bed when Florence came in. ‘You OK? I heard you moving about.’
‘No,’ moaned Grace, ‘I feel terrible.’
‘Come on. I’ll help you back to bed. It’s called a hangover, Grace, I don’t suppose you’ve had many.’
‘Don’t make me feel like some stupid little schoolgirl,’ said Grace sharply.
‘Sorry. Come on. I’ll get you some water. That’s what you need. Lots of it.’
She sat on the bed, making Grace drink the water; Grace shivered. ‘I’m cold,’ she said miserably.
Florence went over to the wardrobe. ‘I’ve got some old jackets and sweaters and things in here. I used it as an overflow from my room. God, I had a lot of clothes. I used to shop compulsively. It used to make me feel better, sort of soothed. It was the only way I could get back at Robert. Clarissa calls it retail therapy. Look at this lovely fox jacket, I hardly wore it and it costs hundreds. Good Lord—’
‘What?’
‘This is one of Charles’s suits. I didn’t realize
he had anything here still. Anyway, put the fox on, Grace, that’ll make you warmer.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace. ‘What’s the suit doing here anyway?’
‘Oh, he kept it here, and a couple of shirts. Just in case he wanted to change and couldn’t use Baker Street. This is really old, well pre-war.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace.
She put the fur jacket on and lay back on her pillows. It felt rather dissolute sitting up in bed in the middle of the night in a huge London house, with a bad hangover, wearing a fur coat, even if it did smell of mothballs. It quite cheered her up. She looked at the suit, Charles’s suit, still hanging in the cupboard. It made her feel odd, as if it was some kind of a ghost, hanging there, watching her.
‘Did Charles often come here?’ she said.
‘No, because Robert discouraged it. But after Daddy got rid of Baker Street, Charles had a key, just for emergencies. I don’t think he ever used it though, he knew I was awfully unkeen. Would you like a cup of tea or something?’
‘Yes please,’ said Grace. ‘That’d be lovely.’
When Florence had gone downstairs, she walked rather unsteadily over to the cupboard, pulled the jacket of the suit off the hanger and took it back to bed with her. It too smelt of mothballs. ‘How very romantic,’ she said aloud and giggled.
It made her feel strange, to be holding it; a piece of his past, a piece of him. His clothes at the Mill House she had put away, in a huge tea chest, ready, when she felt strong enough, to give to Florence for her WVS hoard.
She felt in the pockets: he had always made a big performance of emptying his pockets every night, it was part of his rather obsessive neatness. Well, he hadn’t done it that night: there was a half-crown in one pocket, a hanky and a tram ticket in another. And in the breast pocket a piece of paper.
The paper was folded into four, very neatly. He always did that too: like the pocket-emptying. He never screwed bills or lists up and thrust them in his pockets, or even threw them into wastepaper baskets. She opened it, feeling faintly guilty, as if she was prying. It was a very old, almost brittle piece of paper, torn in places along the folds. As long as it wasn’t a love letter. She really didn’t think she could cope with that.
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