‘Better get a taxi,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll ring for one. The phone’s just come back on.’
‘I didn’t know it was off,’ said Ben, staring at him, feeling a great weight of misery lifting from him.
‘Yes, went dead late last night,’ said Jack. ‘Thunderstorm apparently.’
‘Good God. Yes, please could you get us one?’
‘Campden Hill Square, please,’ said Grace to the taxi driver.
‘Hardly worth it from here, madam.’
‘I don’t care. Just get me there, would you?’
‘Phew,’ said Ben as the taxi finally pulled away from the house. ‘Nick of time. Better this way, though. At least we won’t have to get to the station on the bus. And hopefully we’ll get the train. Honestly, Dan, you and your stomach. Just cost me at least a pound.’
‘Sorry, Dad. Hey, did you see, we nearly hit that other taxi coming down the hill.’
‘Grace! What a lovely surprise,’ said Jack. ‘Clarissa’s gone to work, I’m afraid.’
‘Is – is Ben still here?’
‘No, I’m sorry. He left – oh, about five minutes ago. In a taxi.’
‘A taxi. Oh God. When’s his plane?’
‘About two. They were pretty late anyway. Hence the taxi. The train leaves the station at nine. If you want to try and catch them, I’ll come with you of course, but I don’t think—’
‘Oh no!’ said Grace. She sat down on the steps and burst into tears.
‘Daniel, what on earth is the matter now?’
‘The photograph, Dad. The one of Charlotte and Floss. I left it in the lav.’
‘You what?’
‘I left it in the lav. I had it, and then when I had to go to the toilet I took it in with me. Then you started shouting, and I forgot it. I’ve got to have it, Dad. I’ve got to.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I’ve got to.’
‘Daniel, I am not risking missing our flight because of a photograph. It’s ridiculous. We can ask Clarissa to send it on.’
‘Dad, Grace said I had to have it.’
‘Daniel, no.’
Daniel started to yell; he screamed and yelled and kicked the seat.
The cab driver looked in his rear mirror. ‘What’s wrong, guv?’
‘My son’s forgotten something.’
‘Sounds pretty important.’
‘Oh – not really.’
‘You got time, you know,’ said the cabbie. ‘Can get you to Victoria by nine, easy.’
‘No,’ said Ben firmly.
Unfortunately Daniel had heard this exchange. ‘Dad, I feel sick again – I’m going to be sick, it’s coming, it’s coming, I’m going to throw up—’
‘Oh all right,’ said Ben wearily to the cabbie, ‘let’s go back.’
‘Could I use your phone, Jack?’ asked Grace. She was amazed at herself for even thinking of it, but she suddenly very badly needed to know whether Elspeth had won her scholarship. It would mean that at least something had been achieved in this fruitless, desperate, dreadful morning.
‘Yes of course. In there, in my study. Do go ahead.’
‘Thank you. One of my pupils just put in for a scholarship and we were told the result would be through this morning—’
Grace was on the phone to St Felicia’s waiting to be put through to the music department when she heard a peremptory ring at the bell. The postman, or some other tradesman, she supposed. It rang again. Maybe she should go. She’d thought Jack was still in the house, but perhaps—’
‘Mrs Bennett?’ said the voice of the head of music at St Felicia’s.
‘Yes. This is Grace Bennett.’
‘Mrs Bennett, yes, I have the results here—’
The bell rang yet again. Tradespeople up here were a lot more impatient than in the country. Well, they’d just have to wait. Learn some country manners.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Yes, do please go on.’
‘Lovely news, Mrs Bennett. You’ll be pleased to hear Elspeth has been awarded our scholarship. I have of course written to her father, but I’m sure you’d like to—’
This was really odd; she could have sworn that was Daniel’s voice in the hall. It couldn’t be. No, she must be hallucinating, with exhaustion and emotion. It was Jack’s. She could hear it now, unmistakable, quite loud and deep, his Battle of Britain burr as Clarissa called it. She forced her mind back to Elspeth and the scholarship.
‘I’m so absolutely delighted,’ she said. ‘Thank you—’
She heard the door opening behind her; she put her arm out, gave the thumbs-up sign without looking round, presuming it was Jack. ‘Thank you,’ she said again into the phone, ‘and I’m sorry to—’
And then she felt a hand most surprisingly on her shoulder, moving up gently to the nape of her neck, stroking it; and as she tried to turn round then, to see who it was, knowing who it was, even while she did not dare to know, she heard a voice, filled with love, with tenderness, with amusement.
‘Don’t say sorry,’ it said.
Epilogue
June 1948
It would not normally have been Grace’s chosen reading of course, the Tatler, but it was the only thing available to her, as she waited patiently to see her doctor in Dublin – just to make sure, to her absolute satisfaction, that she and Ben were indeed about to provide the small Kate Lucas with a smaller brother or sister. She picked the magazine up and started flicking idly through it – and there it was, a whole page, with lots of pictures, reporting the recent wedding of Major Charles Bennett DSO to the Honourable Caroline Pennington, held in the grounds of the beautiful Georgian house in Somerset where the bride had grown up.
She had known about it of course, both Florence and Clarissa had written both before and after the event, and indeed Charles himself had written her a stiff little note informing her; but it was wonderfully intriguing to actually see the pictures, to study them all, to feel she had been there, an unseen almost ghostly observer. She had been truly pleased at the news, not the smallest shadow of an uncharitable thought had fallen across her consciousness; she bore Charles no ill-will whatsoever, she had been pleased to discover, and Caroline was clearly the most suitable of brides for him, pretty, vivacious, a wonderful cook, a fine horsewoman (or so Florence had said), a little young perhaps, but he would like that, it would suit his pomposity, his need to be completely in charge. So much more suitable than she had been, Grace thought, studying Caroline’s radiant smile, her slightly bosomy figure (encased in a lace dress, strongly reminiscent of the one worn by Princess Elizabeth when she had married her Prince Philip Mountbatten the previous year); Caroline would do all the things at which she had failed so miserably, would ride with him, entertain for him, join charity committees, become an integral and important part of the local community – and no doubt provide him with a son and heir within the year.
Charles looked very handsome in his morning suit, she thought, in spite of his scar; and although the marriage itself had been held in a registry office, there had been a blessing in church – ‘a charming ceremony’ according to the reporter.
There were four small bridesmaids in frilly dresses, and four pageboys in white satin, all smiling very nicely at the camera except for one – Imogen – who was scowling vigorously (and had later apparently according to Clarissa been seen riding a pony bareback round the paddock, her frilly skirt tucked into her knickers – ‘while her mother breastfed little Cedric right in the middle of the tent, too funny, Florence is so wonderful, I expect she’ll be doing it in the House of Commons next, but let’s hope this one won’t be quite so spoilt’).
There was a picture of all the parents flanking the bride and groom: Muriel looking extremely complacent, no doubt satisfied that finally Charles had married a girl who was at least nearly good enough for him, Clifford looking extremely jolly (no doubt as much as a result of drinking several glasses of champagne as at the events of the day) and Lord and Lady Pennington looking charmingly, gracious
ly happy.
She could imagine exactly what all the guests (photographed sipping champagne in the marquee) would have been saying; how nice it was that poor Charles had found the right wife at last, how they had all known it could never last, his first marriage; that she had been very nice in her way, of course, the first Mrs Bennett, but she simply wasn’t the sort of person Charles should have married, and agreeing that it been no great surprise to anyone really when she had run off like that, just to be with the other man, the father of those two boys she had taken in – against Charles’s wishes incidentally, straight from the slums.
And there was Clarissa, looking ravishing in her New Look outfit, and dear Jack, standing very upright beside her, smiling his determined smile – ‘War hero Jack Compton Brown’ read the caption, ‘shortly to complete his studies at medical school, to qualify as a plastic surgeon.’ How brave he was: braver than any of them. Ben had said he would like to have them to stay, him and Clarissa; it would be so lovely to see them again.
Well, there would be three of them, of course, for there was the exquisite small Vanessa as well, and probably a uniformed nanny in tow; quite a party. But the house was just big enough, her lovely grey stone house in the small village just outside Dublin, bought for them by Clifford, dear Clifford, his handsome old face flushed with determination when he handed her the cheque: ‘No need to tell anyone, my darling, anyone at all of course, not even Ben if you don’t want to, small legacy, I should think, wouldn’t you, from that dear old great aunt of yours perhaps, the one up in Scotland, who died while all the drama was going on –’
She had been afraid Ben wouldn’t believe that, would be suspicious, but he had accepted it without question: probably because he was so grateful. Their responsibilities at that point had been rather onerous, he with his teacher training course only halfway through, Kate on the way, David and Daniel both at the grammar school by then, and getting very expensive – all his savings gone on the unused tickets to Australia. Ireland had been such a brilliant idea of Ben’s: far from all the gossip and scandal, the houses so much cheaper, and the people so friendly and welcoming, the countryside so beautiful.
And there was Giles, looking wonderfully handsome: she had read all the reviews of his latest triumph, lead in the fashionable new musical, a rather daring but much praised adaptation of As You Like It which was touring all the major provincial cities before opening in the West End; it was rumoured to be coming to Dublin, which would be wonderful, Florence had promised to let her know definitely – ‘and I’ll come too, of course, canvassing permitting, but I have a real chance of getting in this time (local only of course) and of course that must come first. I can see you any time.’
Grace presumed that tact was not an essential quality in a politician.
She looked at her watch: she had been waiting a long time. She had three pupils that afternoon; if she wasn’t out of here in twenty minutes she’d be late. Not that it would terribly matter, Bridget who looked after Kate while she was teaching would simply give some cake and some lemonade to whoever it was – Mary? Or Felicity? – who was first. God, pregnancy played havoc with your brain. That was really why she was so sure she was having another one: it started long before she even felt sick, an inability to remember even her own name and address, never mind anyone else’s.
‘Mrs Lucas? Sorry to have kept you. Doctor will see you now. Did you want to keep that magazine, Mrs Lucas, that you’re holding, I’m sure it would be fine if you did.’
Grace stood up.
‘Thank you. No, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. And don’t worry about the wait. I’ve been quite happy.’
‘Well isn’t that a fine thing. So many people get annoyed. You look very happy, Mrs Lucas, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace.
She went into the surgery, leaving the magazine behind her. She had thought, briefly, of taking it home to show Ben, but on the whole it seemed a bad idea. It was all part of another life, a strangely unbelievable other life, that they both looked back on less and less. Now was what mattered, now and the future and each other and their children. The past was another place: none of it dangerous, none of it forbidden any more: but certainly best left undisturbed.
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Forbidden Places
Penny Vincenzi
Grace Bennett is just married when the war begins. But bombs aren’t the only danger war offers—every accepted social value and personal conviction can be blown apart. Of Grace and her two closest friends, one is married and widowed within five years. She is free to start again—or is she? Another has a husband she thinks she loves, but must question her marriage when the war turns him into a grotesque parody of what he once was. Was their love ever real? The third is trapped in a nightmare marriage—can the war free her? Forbidden Places is another gripping, historical drama by Penny Vincenzi, the mistress of the genre.
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PENNY VINCENZI, before becoming a novelist, worked for magazines including Vogue, Tatler, and Cosmopolitan. She is the author of eleven other novels, also available from Overlook. You can learn more about the author at www.pennyvincenzi.com.
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