Chapter 33
Winter–Spring 1945–1946
‘How would you like to go and live in Australia?’ said Ben.
‘Australia? Blimey, yeah,’ said Daniel.
‘Dunno,’ said David. ‘Why Australia?’
Why Australia? Because it was a new beginning. Because it was so far away from Grace she would become an impossible dream. Because there would not be the faintest, slightest chance that he would bump into her somewhere. Because he wouldn’t lie awake at night there, fighting a temptation to go and see her that was almost irresistible. Because it was a young country, his social background would be meaningless, because he would be accepted for what he was, what he could do. Because no one, no one at all, would be sorry for him.
In a way it was the sympathy that got him down the most. They meant well, the lads, trying to cheer him up, trying to persuade him to go out with them, pushing girls in his way. And, because they meant so well, he felt sometimes he had to go along with them, go out, get drunk, have a laugh. One evening he’d got so drunk he’d found himself in bed with some tart over a pub somewhere; another night he came to as the beaten-up old car he was driving hit a tree. It was a miracle he wasn’t killed, everyone said so; he knew that was supposed to be comforting, but if it hadn’t been for the boys he would have welcomed death.
The boys were alternately good and difficult; he had sat them down, when all three of them had finally moved into his temporary accommodation in Tidworth, talked to them honestly. He told them he had loved Grace very much, and she him, but the way things had turned out they had had to part. They were both very unhappy, he said, and he knew that at times he might not behave too well, he was sorry about that, he apologized in advance, but they all had to get through it somehow.
‘Can’t you see her sometimes, just to cheer yourself up?’ Daniel had asked. No, Ben had said, he couldn’t. That would only make things worse in the long run.
‘Well, we’ll have to cheer you up then,’ said Daniel, and gave him a hug. Ben hugged him back.
Daniel was being very brave, very good; he’d had a worse time than David because he’d had to change schools and, of the two, he had been more attached to Grace. He had only been four when they first went to live with her; his mother had become a hazy memory. He missed Grace terribly, her kindness, her gentleness, her ability to know what he was thinking about, but he struggled not to show it. He thought that would make his father feel worse.
David’s main emotion was exasperation. He was in the throes of pre-adolescence, wrapped up in himself, still struggling at school (more, these days, without Clifford to help); he couldn’t see why the adults couldn’t sort themselves out. He had disliked Charles intensely the day he had met him at the Priory, and while he accepted the fact that Grace had to stay with him, he couldn’t understand how someone as nice, as sensitive as she, could have married someone so unpleasant in the first place. He also felt, while trying to crush the sensation, that his father was being a bit feeble. If it had been him, he thought, he would at least have had a go at getting Grace back. He found his father’s rather negative attitude to everything these days depressing. He had asked if he was still going to train as a teacher and Ben had said no. David thought that at least he could have stuck to that idea. He might be quite old, but he had to do something for the rest of his life, he couldn’t just mope around being miserable about Grace for the next however long it was he had to live. Staying in the army had been quite a good idea, David thought, but in the end they’d told him he didn’t have a future there because of his shoulder.
‘Would you like to go to Australia, then?’ Daniel asked him.
‘No,’ said David shortly, ‘no, I wouldn’t. I’ve just made a whole new lot of friends, I don’t want to start again.’
‘But it’d be good there. Sunny all the time, and we could be on the beach every day. Cheer Dad up and all.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe. But I bet we won’t go anyway. It’ll come to nothing, like everything Dad talks about.’
‘Do you miss Grace?’ said Daniel.
‘Yeah, course.’
‘I know Dad doesn’t want to see her, but could we, do you think?’
‘Dunno. Not over there at Thorpe. Her horrible husband wouldn’t let us.’
‘No, but we could meet her in Salisbury maybe. I’m going to ask Dad.’
Ben said he supposed it would be all right, if Grace was willing.
‘Why don’t you write to her? That way she can think about it. But you know I can’t see her, don’t you?’
‘Course I do.’
‘And she mightn’t feel she should see you, even.’
‘Don’t see why not,’ said Daniel.
Grace recognized Daniel’s writing at once; she put the letter away quickly in her pocket until Charles had left for the office. Then she read it, several times, and after a great deal of thought, wrote back, arranging to meet them for tea at the Bear in Salisbury.
‘I – might be a bit late back today,’ she said to Charles. ‘I’ve got an extra music lesson.’
He looked at her and sighed. ‘I hope this isn’t going to happen a lot,’ he said. ‘When I agreed to you doing this course, you assured me it wouldn’t affect our lives together.’
‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous,’ said Grace. ‘I might be on the six-thirty bus rather than the six o’clock. I don’t see that as having a major effect on our marriage. If it does, there’s something very wrong. Anyway, if you’d only agree to my having a car—’
‘Grace, we can’t afford to run two cars at the moment,’ said Charles, ‘I told you that. When the business is up and running again, perhaps –’
Grace didn’t argue. She knew it was nothing to do with economics; he didn’t want her to have the freedom a car would provide. He had no idea she had never had any proper lessons, and had driven his car throughout the war largely self-taught; she was saving that up to tell him when she really wanted to shock him. Shocking Charles was one of the few pleasures she found in their relationship these days.
She had bought presents for both boys, a set of rail tracks for Daniel and a second-hand camera for David. She had also had a picture framed for Daniel of Floss and Charlotte together in the paddock.
It was over six months since she had seen them; she waited for them, her heart pounding, almost as if she was going to see Ben.
They came into the lounge of the Bear looking slightly nervous, David swaggering, hands in his pockets, pretending to whistle. She stood up, called them.
Daniel flew into her arms. ‘Grace, Grace, it’s so lovely to see you.’
‘It’s lovely to see you too. I think you’ve grown. Well, you have. Definitely.’
‘We miss you so much,’ said Daniel.
‘I miss you too. So much. Hallo, David.’
‘Hallo,’ he said, and shook her hand solemnly.
‘David,’ said Grace, smiling, ‘you’re so grown up. How’s school?’
‘It’s OK, thanks.’
‘Second year now.’
‘Yeah.’
It was awkward at first, but once they started eating tea in the dining room they relaxed, began to chat, to tell her things: David was in the under-fourteen football team, Daniel had a hamster, they were moving again soon, into a house quite near, their dad was coming out of the army, got a job in a factory for now.
‘He said just to tell you he was fine,’ said Daniel carefully. ‘That’s all. And he wants to know how you are.’
‘Tell him I’m fine, too. All right?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled at her.
They went through into the lounge again after tea.
‘I’m doing the scholarship this year,’ said Daniel, sitting next to her, cuddling up to her, big boy though he was.
‘I know. Think you’ll pass?’
‘Dunno,’ he said.
‘No,’ said David. Daniel punched him.
‘Anyway, you won’t be able to go, if we go to Australia.’
‘Australia!’ said Grace. The shock was so intense she thought she might faint. ‘You’re going to Australia?’
‘We might. It’s Dad’s idea. We don’t want to.’
‘I do,’ said Daniel. ‘Well, except I couldn’t see you any more.’
She saw them onto their bus. Daniel was ecstatic at the photograph. ‘I’ll never go anywhere without it, ever. Not even to Australia. Specially not to Australia.’
As she was waiting at the stop for her own bus, Charles appeared in the car. He hooted at her, leant across, told her to get in.
‘Hallo,’ she said.
He was silent. Then, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Meeting those boys. I saw you seeing them onto the bus. Without telling me. Without asking me.’
‘Charles!’
‘I mean it. Did you see their father as well? Did you?’
‘No!’ she said, almost amused at his rage. ‘No, of course not. I will never, ever see him again. I gave you my word.’
‘For what that’s worth,’ he said.
‘Charles, stop it. That’s outrageous.’
‘Why do you want to see them? For God’s sake, why?’
‘Because I miss them. I love them and I—’
‘You love them?’ he said, and there was total derision in his voice. ‘Love them? Two little guttersnipes. From the East End of London. You—’
‘Stop the car,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Stop it at once. Or I shall get out anyway.’
‘No.’
‘Charles –’ She put her hand on the door; he looked at her, screeched to a halt.
‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘don’t you ever, ever talk like that about those boys again. Do you understand me? They were all I had for a very long time. I loved them dearly. I still love them.’
There was a long silence, then he said, ‘I cannot believe that you can’t understand why it upsets me. You can get out now if you want to.’
She hesitated, finally said, ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll stay. Let’s go home.’
By the time they reached the Mill House, she was feeling guilty again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Charles much later that night, after they’d had supper and were sitting in the drawing room. ‘I – I didn’t think. Of course it would upset you. But—’
‘It’s all right,’ he said coldly, ‘let’s leave it. I accept your apology.’
That night he made love to her: as always, when he was upset, more thoughtfully, more sensitively than usual. It was almost all right. Not pleasant, but at least all right. When it was over he said, ‘I’m sorry if I – overreacted. It was only because I – well, I was so upset. Upset and shocked.’
‘Yes of course,’ she said.
Charles had tried to make her give up teaching at the school. He had said several times he didn’t like it, that if she must work at a school why not St Edwin’s, the prep school over at Westhorne? Grace told him firmly that she had no intention of wasting her time on children who had plenty of music in their lives already and that she would go on helping Miss Merton for as long as Miss Merton needed her.
As she was leaving one day, Miss Merton said, ‘I’m a bit worried about Elspeth Dunn.’
‘Why?’ said Grace.
‘You know she failed the scholarship?’
‘Yes, I do. I was very surprised, but—’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Miss Merton. ‘All her brains go into her music. She can’t spell, never learnt her tables. Anyway, she’s at the secondary modern and I hear she hates it, really miserable. I thought perhaps if she could still have her lessons—’
‘Of course,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll go and see her.’
Elspeth had just got home when she arrived, and was laying the table for tea. She flushed with pleasure when she saw Grace. ‘Hallo, miss.’
‘Hallo, Elspeth.’ She was still very small, still only looked about nine, her only concession to adolescence being a crop of spots on her nose.
‘How’s the new school?’
‘All right.’
‘You doing any music?’
‘Only class music, miss. The teacher’s not very nice.’
‘No piano lessons?’
‘No, miss.’
‘Well, that’s a shame. Look, I wondered if you’d like to come to my house after school once a week. I could give you a lesson. And you can always come and practise if you want to.’
‘Oh, miss!’ Elspeth’s small face was scarlet, the spots disappeared in the general bright colour. ‘That’d be lovely, miss. I’ll have to ask my dad, though.’
‘I’m sure your dad won’t mind. You can tell him I miss the cheese as much as you miss the lessons. He’ll get the idea.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘How very, very nice,’ said Angela Barlowe.
‘What’s that, dear?’ asked her mother. They were having a rather early breakfast; it was Angela’s day at the hospital, and the two girls had to be dropped off at their school first. The boys were both away, one at prep school, the other at Wellington. The army was paying for most of his fees.
‘I’ve had a letter from a Grace Bennett. She’s married to the officer Colin was – well, the one there was the confusion of identity over. Anyway, it’s such a nice letter. She says she wants to come and see me.’ She looked at her mother, and tears filled her eyes; then she said, her voice very shaky as she wiped them away on her table napkin, ‘If I could just know a bit more about it all, I’d feel so much better. I must write to her straight away.’
Grace and Angela Barlowe agreed that the easiest place to meet would be London; they could both get the train up, cross-country was much more difficult and Angela said she wanted to go to Daniel Neal’s to get some things for Sarah, her elder daughter, who was going away to school after Christmas.
Grace was very anxious for Charles not to know she was seeing Angela Barlowe; she knew it was precisely the sort of thing that would make him angry. She told him she was going to see Florence and Imogen. ‘She is my goddaughter, and I haven’t seen her for ages.’
Charles said he didn’t think even God could do a lot for Imogen.
Grace sat waiting for Angela at the Charing Cross Hotel. She felt rather nervous; supposing she was a fierce dragon of a woman, who would resent the fact that her husband was dead while Grace’s had come safely home. Or would demand to see Charles himself, hear more about it all – then what would she do? She was just beginning to think it was a terrible mistake when she felt a gentle tap on her arm.
‘Mrs Bennett?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s me. And you must be Mrs Barlowe.’
‘Mrs Bennett and Mrs Barlowe, it sounds like a music-hall turn,’ said Angela Barlowe, smiling. ‘I’m Angela.’ She held out her hand. She didn’t appear to be too much of a fierce dragon, being fair and sweet-faced and very weary-looking, her unfashionably long dress drooping below her coat, and a pair of rather shabby shoes on rather large feet.
‘And I’m Grace. I’ve ordered some coffee. I do hope that’s all right.’
‘It’s very much so. I haven’t had time for anything since I got out of bed. Have you got children?’
‘No,’ said Grace bleakly. ‘No I haven’t.’
‘Oh – well. They’re lovely, of course, a great joy, but terribly exhausting.’
There was an awkward silence; the coffee arrived.
‘I’ll be mother,’ said Grace and giggled weakly at the inappropriateness of the joke. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. I’m not at all sure what I was going to say, but I just thought it would be helpful for you if I told you everything I knew. Which isn’t much, I’m afraid. Because it must all seem a bit – unsatisfactory. That’s what I thought.’
‘It is,’ said Angela, ‘more than a bit. And I’m so grateful to you. Please do, tell me everything. Whatever it is, however – well, however unpleasant, I know it will help me feel better.’
G
race told her: that Charles and Colin had escaped together, that Colin had been wounded, that Charles had been helping him, and that a kind, friendly farmer had taken him in and got medical assistance. ‘I don’t know much more I’m afraid. I know he was found by a British soldier, but he was – well, he was dead. And I don’t even know where he was; I imagine at this farm. Maybe the man decided to turn him in or maybe he needed to be got to hospital, and that wasn’t possible. The wound was quite serious, Charles said. But at least, as far as we know, he was in good hands, was kindly treated at the end. I’m sorry, it doesn’t sound very much now. Hardly worth coming to London for,’ she added, feeling suddenly embarrassed.
‘No, you’re wrong,’ said Angela, ‘it’s been very much worth it. The main thing was I could never quite be sure that it was Colin, the man they found. I mean I wondered if he had died some other awful way. Or wasn’t’ – she hesitated – ‘wasn’t dead at all.’
‘No, I think – oh dear, is this really making you feel better?’ said Grace.
‘Yes, it is. Very much better. There’s nothing worse than uncertainty.’
‘Well then, yes, I’m sure it must have been him. Your husband. Especially as he had my husband’s identity tag. You know about that, do you?’
‘It sounded a little strange. But yes—’
‘The thing was, Charles’s got broken, he was helping your husband, half carrying him by then, I think, and they were struggling along. They thought it had got lost, but it must have got caught in their clothes or something. Anyway, your husband insisted Charles had his, said it would be dangerous for him not to have one, in case he was thought to be a spy.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘So that proves they were together, doesn’t it? That it was him with Charles. I’m so sorry. So very sorry. I feel – guilty in a way.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Angela Barlowe, smiling rather feebly. ‘Anyway, you had a year of pretty good hell, didn’t you? Thinking your husband was dead?’
‘Oh – oh yes,’ said Grace, thinking of her year of hell, the most joyful, the happiest in her life, thinking how dreadful that Angela Barlowe, who had clearly loved her husband so much, should have lost him, of the dreadful irony that they had both lost the men they loved, because Charles had come safely home.
Forbidden Places Page 63
