‘No,’ she said, ‘you don’t. What I do judge, Charles, what I find impossible to bear, is your lying about what you did. Preaching things like honour and duty at me, when you had done – well, what you did. If you’d been honest, if you’d told me what happened, I might have been shocked, I would have been shocked, but I would have tried to understand. How it happened, why it happened. I know what a terrible war you’d had, I can see how you’d suffered. But you couldn’t trust me with it. You never could trust me with anything, could you? Just thought I was stupid, crass, incompetent in every way. I wish I knew why you married me, Charles, I really do.’
‘I wish I knew too,’ he said, and his voice was full of bitterness as well as rage. ‘Looking back now I really cannot imagine. Well, I hope your soldier had more pleasure out of you than I did. For his sake.’
‘Charles,’ said Grace, ‘be careful. Be very careful.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Ben, his tongue loosened by some of Jack’s fine whisky, sitting with his long legs stretched out in Clarissa’s drawing room after dinner, ‘is why she married him. And why he married her. Come to that.’
They were alone; the boys had gone to bed, Jack was studying.
‘I think I can answer both questions,’ said Clarissa. ‘Goodness, was that lightning? I hope it won’t affect your thrilling journey, Ben darling. She married him because she was dazzled by him, hopelessly impressed. He was frightfully good-looking, you know, very charming, quite rich, much older than her. She was very young, barely twenty I think, and very, very unsophisticated. Shy, couldn’t say boo to the tiniest gosling. And he swept her off her feet. And once she was on that slippery slope, she just had to stay on it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But why did he—’
‘Charles likes to dominate situations,’ said Clarissa, ‘that’s why I didn’t marry him. I should never have said I would, but he was there, and he was fun, and I was always getting engaged to people, you can’t imagine. Broke off at least four. But it really almost destroyed him when I told him I wasn’t going to marry him. Mostly because he can’t bear failure, can’t bear people thinking he’s not an entirely good egg. He was much more upset at the humiliation than at my telling him I didn’t love him. And I think he just couldn’t risk it happening again. He thought Grace was a pushover; a sweet, innocent little thing who would do everything he told her to do. And she was incredibly pretty – well, she still is – and sweet, and charming, and the absolutely ideal wife for him – only in theory, Ben darling, don’t look like that. And he knew that she wouldn’t in a million years do what I did, let him down, make a fool of him, leave him. Even now.’
‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘That’s why I never tried to persuade her, never tried to make her change her mind.’
‘I have decided to leave you, Charles,’ said Grace, ‘that’s about the only thing I do feel sure about at the moment.’
‘Oh don’t be absurd,’ he said, ‘of course you’re not going to leave me. Just over this.’
‘No, not just over this. You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying, have you?’
‘Well, why then?’
‘Because you’ve got me so terribly wrong. Because you don’t understand me, don’t value what I am at all. We don’t have a relationship. You want someone, something utterly different, and you’re never going to find her – it – in me. I’m not leaving you because of what you did to Colonel Barlowe. Well, not really. It’s just shown me, that’s all, what you’ve been doing to me.’
‘Grace,’ he said, and there was panic in his voice now,
‘Grace, please don’t go. I can’t manage without you, I need you—’
‘No you don’t,’ she said, ‘that’s what I’m telling you. Listen to me, Charles, you might learn something. You don’t need me at all. You don’t need anything I can do for you. If I thought you did, I’d struggle on, and I daresay in the end we’d be quite happy. But you don’t, and I can’t cope with that.’
‘So I suppose you’re going to tell everyone, are you? You’ll enjoy that, won’t you? Telling them what a rat I am, how I deserted a friend in his hour of need.’
‘Charles—’
‘I don’t know why you’re so sure everyone would believe you,’ he said. ‘I can deny anything that fool of a corporal said.’ He sounded suddenly more confident. ‘Who would take his – and your – word against mine?’
‘Nobody probably,’ said Grace, ‘that’s the whole point. And it would cause so many people so much pain, if they knew, that I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone the truth. In fact I shall probably write to nice Mrs Barlowe and send her the ring and tell her it was sent to me anonymously by someone who nursed him. Or something like that. Something comforting, anyway.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ he said. ‘Just use what you know to taunt me with for the rest of my life, I suppose. Get what you want out of me. Is that it?’
‘No,’ said Grace, ‘no, that’s not it. But I can’t go on living with you. I just can’t.’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘now we come to it. You’ll be going off to your soldier, no doubt.’
‘I haven’t even thought about that,’ she said, surprise in her voice that she so genuinely had not. ‘And anyway, he’s going to live in Australia. He’s leaving in the morning. I certainly can’t go with him. And I don’t know that he would even want me to.’
She sat quietly for a moment, reflecting on that fact, so confused by her day, so exhausted, she had no idea, no idea at all what was to become of her, once she had left Charles and his house. His house, she thought, always his house; never hers, never even theirs. It summed up their entire marriage, that fact, the whole sorry, wasteful, miserable affair.
‘And what am I to tell people?’ he said. He was looking rather more uncertain now.
‘Oh for God’s sake, what does it matter what you tell people?’ said Grace, her voice a deep well of exasperation as well as despair. ‘You can tell them whatever you like, I really don’t care. They all think I’m worthless, your friends, anyway. You can just say I’ve gone, left you. Your mother will think it’s only to be expected, will be relieved, I imagine. I shall tell your father some comforting half-truth. You really don’t have to worry, Charles. You can divorce me, marry someone else, someone suitable, someone who can ride and give cocktail parties—’
‘Oh don’t be so bloody pathetic,’ he said.
But she could see that already the idea had its attractions. ‘You don’t love me at all, do you?’ she said. ‘You never did.’
‘Not really,’ he said, politely surprised at the discovery, ‘no, I don’t think I ever did.’
Grace lay on the sofa; she felt deathly weary and terribly cold. Charles was in his study, had closed the door very firmly on her. It seemed symptomatic not only of the end of their marriage, but of his treatment of her right through it.
Every so often she had a fit of violent shivering; she supposed she was in some kind of shock. It had been a bit like that when she had first heard about Charles, that he was alive. Before she lost the baby. Ben’s baby.
She looked around the room: this room that she loved so much, in this house that she loved so much, that her heart was in. In every corner of every room there was a memory, some of them happy, some of them dreadful: all of it so much more than just walls and floors, bricks and mortar.
Well, she had to leave it now; she couldn’t stay. She had to walk away, bequeath it, that part of her life that had been lived in it, and start again. And not even with Ben. On her own.
If only, if only she had made this discovery earlier. There were so many ifs: if Brian Meredith hadn’t been ill, if Charles hadn’t broken his leg, if Elspeth’s exam had been one day earlier. But it was too late now. Much too late. And anyway, she thought, was she really quite, quite sure Ben wanted her still? After this long, painful year. He hadn’t written so much as the briefest note to say goodbye, hadn’t even sent a message; she must not assume he missed her
as much as she missed him.
‘Do you still miss Grace?’ said Clarissa.
‘Of course I do,’ he said, ‘I miss her so much. What she looks like, what she sounds like, what she feels like. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.’
‘Oh Ben,’ said Clarissa, her dark eyes bright with tears, ‘oh Ben, darling, don’t you think even now you might—’
‘No,’ he said fiercely, ‘no, I don’t. I can’t. We promised each other. She’s so – so straight, Clarissa. And brave. It would be wrong of me, it would just make things worse for her. Besides,’ he said with a crooked grin, ‘how do I know she still feels the same about me. It’s a whole year now, she’s probably settling down with her – with him.’
Clarissa looked at him, thought of Grace’s voice saying, ‘It’s so hard that I still don’t know how to bear it,’ and made a decision that she hoped she wasn’t going to regret for the rest of her life.
‘I think you should phone and say goodbye,’ she said. ‘It’s worth just a few more tears. You’ll regret it for ever if you don’t.’
Ben looked at her for a long time; then he said, ‘I couldn’t. I don’t think I want to hear her voice. I couldn’t stand it. And besides, supposing he answered the phone.’
Clarissa thought for a moment. Then she said, ‘You could always use Clifford as a go-between.’
The dogs were whining; they hated to be in the kitchen on their own. Grace went in to see them, gave them a biscuit each. That made her realize, rather to her surprise, she was hungry herself; she found some bread, spread it with some of Mr Dunn’s honey. It was bread she had made herself; Charles was right, it was very doughy – she’d have indigestion now to add to her miseries. She decided to go for a walk; it might help to clear her head, which was aching very nicely too. ‘Come on,’ she said to the dogs, ‘just a little way.’
‘Beddy-byes soon, I think,’ said Clarissa. ‘This little sprog makes me awfully sleepy. If it’s a boy, I’m going to call him Benjamin. What would you think about that?’
‘I’d think you were flattering me,’ said Ben, smiling at her. ‘But if you did, I’d like it. I’ll miss you, Clarissa.’
‘And I shall miss you. All of you.’ She lay back on the sofa, looked at him. ‘Those boys are such heaven. I just looked in on them: Daniel’s fast asleep with a huge framed picture of Charlotte and Floss under his pillow. It must be terribly uncomfortable.’
‘He does it every night,’ said Ben.
‘Well, as I said, darling, bedtime. Goodnight, sweet dreams.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Ben, ‘and thank you for everything.’
He went out of the room; Clarissa thought she had never seen anyone look so alone. Her heart ached for him.
Grace walked into the house to find Charles standing in the kitchen. He half smiled at her; he was clearly still feeling extremely wary of her.
‘My father phoned while you were out,’ he said, ‘said he wanted to speak to you, said it was urgent. Wouldn’t tell me what it was about. Could you ring him back?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Grace. ‘Thank you.’
Clarissa started plumping up cushions, putting away newspapers, then remembered she had to ring May. A last-minute booking had come in, and there was no one left to send: on such occasions May went to the client herself. She picked up the phone, dialled the number. The phone was dead. It was, the operator told her, due to the thunderstorm.
She would just have to go in to the office early, catch May then.
‘Clifford, it’s Grace. What’s the matter, is there a problem?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, not exactly. I just had a call from Ben.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace, and sat down very abruptly. ‘What – what did he say?’
‘He said just to say goodbye and to tell you he still loves you very much. That’s all.’
‘Oh Clifford,’ said Grace, ‘Oh dear. It’s all too late,’ and she burst into tears.
‘Well,’ said Clifford, and she could tell he was having great difficulty making up his mind quite what to say. ‘He’s still at Clarissa’s, you know.’
So it wasn’t actually too late. Not yet. Not quite. Not too late at all. She said goodbye to Clifford, put the receiver down and closed the study door.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the operator, ‘that number is out of order. Definitely out of order. Most of the numbers on that exchange are.’
‘It can’t be,’ said Grace stupidly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It – oh never mind.’ She could ring Florence. Florence wouldn’t mind. They were always up terribly late.
‘Could you try Sloane 543? Please?’
‘Hold the line, caller.’ An endless, endless wait. ‘I’m sorry, caller, there doesn’t seem to be any reply.’
‘Could you try again?’
Another long wait.
‘I’m sorry, caller. No reply.’
Oh God. He would think she hadn’t even tried. He had wanted to say goodbye, would be waiting, hoping that she would phone, and thinking she didn’t care. Didn’t love him. He was going off to the other side of the world, and this was her last chance, her very last chance, to tell him she still loved him too, and she couldn’t do it. Well, she had to, she simply had to. Otherwise she would never forgive herself and he would never forgive her. She looked at her watch. Half past ten. She wondered wildly, briefly if she shouldn’t just take the car and start driving to London; then thought that if she got the milk train in the morning she would actually get there much more quickly and safely. She could get a taxi to Clarissa’s, be there by – well, by eight or so – and still catch Ben. See Ben. If only to say goodbye.
In Clarissa’s house, David and Daniel slept, both restless, sharing excitement-packed dreams of planes and sunshine and sharks. Ben lay awake, staring out at the night sky, cleansed now of its thunder clouds, the half-moon covered with scudding clouds, thinking about Grace, half wishing he hadn’t phoned and wishing desperately she had phoned him back. If only to say goodbye.
There were only two things Grace was really worried about as she crept downstairs at four in the morning: one was Charlotte and the other was Puppy. She thought briefly, wildly of taking them, and then rejected the idea: Clifford would look after them. He wouldn’t mind. There was no way she could actually go to Australia: apart from anything else, she didn’t have a ticket. She could be back to collect the dogs next day. Or later that day.
She scribbled a note to Clifford, put it in an envelope to post through the Priory door, asking him to collect the dogs later, explaining she had gone to say goodbye to Ben. Then she wrote another note to Charles, saying his car was at Salisbury station and the keys were with the stationmaster, and left it on the kitchen table. And then she left. She had been terrified he would wake and hear the car starting until she realized there would be nothing he could do about it, except watch her disappearing down the lane. The thought made her smile.
The milk train left Salisbury at five, was due to reach London at half past seven or thereabouts. Grace, finally exhausted, slept in a corner of the carriage, having extracted a promise from the guard that he would wake her at Waterloo.
‘I’ll do that, my dear,’ he said. ‘You have a nice sleep now.’
‘I will,’ she said. And she did.
‘Now we have to leave this house at eight o’clock at the latest,’ said Ben firmly to the boys. ‘We have to make our own way to Victoria station to go down to the coast and we don’t know the way. We’ll be carrying our luggage, and we can’t afford to be in a rush. All right?’
‘Yeah, OK,’ they said.
‘So go and wash, and then come down for breakfast. Clarissa’s waiting to say goodbye, she’s got to go to her office.’
‘She looks ever so different, all fat and that,’ said Daniel.
‘I think she still looks lovely,’ said Ben firmly.
Clarissa cried when she said goodbye to them.
‘I don’t know how I’m goi
ng to bear it,’ she said. ‘Now I want hundreds of photographs and letters, don’t forget, and when I’ve made my fortune as the first lady tycoon, I’ll be over. I might even open a branch of Marissa in Sydney.’
‘Yeah, you do that,’ said Ben. He hugged her, kissed her. It reminded him perversely of kissing Grace and that upset him. She looked up at him and smiled, understanding.
‘She’ll be all right,’ she said, ‘I’ll look after her.’
‘Tell her I love her,’ he said, ‘tell her I’ll always love her.’
‘I will. Oh dear – oh my goodness, I must go. Jack darling, lock up when you leave, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Clarissa. I think I can just about remember to lock the front door.’
Grace tried the phone again at Waterloo; it was still out of order. She ran over to the taxi rank. ‘Campden Hill Square, please. Quickly.’
It was already seven forty.
‘Take a bit of time from here, madam. To be honest with you, you’d do better on the tube. Notting Hill Gate.’
‘Oh, all right. Thank you.’
‘Right,’ said Ben, ‘I think that’s just about it. Daniel, what’s the matter?’
‘I’ve got to go to the toilet, Dad.’
‘Well, be quick.’
‘Yeah, OK. I’ve got stomach ache, though.’
Ever since his appendicitis he had been neurotic about his stomach.
‘Go on then.’
Five minutes later Daniel had still not come downstairs. Ben looked at the clock. It was eight ten. ‘David, go and tell him to hurry up, for God’s sake.’
David came down again looking exasperated. ‘He says he feels sick now.’
‘Oh God,’ said Ben. ‘All right, I’ll go up.’
The tube stuck in the tunnel; for almost fifteen minutes it sat there, making chugging noises, followed by high-pitched revving-up ones and then more chugging. Grace thought she had never in her entire life been so close to murdering anyone as the little man who sat next to her telling her his life story, which seemed to consist in its entirety of a series of journeys from his home to his office and back again on the tube, and thence to his allotment on his bicycle. He also gave her a bed-by-bed description of what the allotment managed to produce.
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