by Parks, Adele
Lydia had been there the day the photo was taken; it was one of the recruitment drive days. As officers, Arthur and Samuel had encouraged the village men and boys to sign up for the King’s sovereign. Lydia remembered the strapping men and their sons, who scribbled their names or marked a cross. They wore English apples in their cheeks and carried farm boys’ stockiness. English milk, wheat and meat had fed these boys, made their shoulders wide, and the English sun and wind had tanned their arms. The English generals sent them to their deaths. They laughed and joked, not taking anything too seriously, certainly not themselves, certainly not the war. There had been a brass band and bunting. Clever, ambitious young men stood side by side with the sly and the ninnies. All sorts of men. They accepted their situation with equal poise and equal dedication.
‘We lined the streets and waved flags as they went to their deaths,’ muttered Lydia.
‘What were we supposed to do? Let them go without a cheer?’ Cecily sighed.
‘But we acted as though it was a party.’
‘We didn’t know. We can’t blame ourselves for what we didn’t know.’
Lydia patted Cecily’s hand. ‘You are very brave.’
‘No, I’m neither brave nor cowardly. I’m resigned, which is something much more horrible.’
‘It must be very difficult.’ Lydia hated herself for uttering such an understatement, but she had to say something.
Cecily sighed so forlornly that Lydia thought she might expunge every breath in her body. ‘Sometimes,’ she whispered, ‘I wish it was over.’
‘For him?’
‘Or me.’ Cecily trembled under the weight of her enormous, brutal confession. ‘You see, it’s impossible for anything to be as it was before. He can’t enjoy anything and so I can’t either. He’s in so much pain. Did you hear the thunderstorm last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘We needed it. The rain has washed the fields, and this morning I noticed how sweet and fertile everything smells. For a moment I stared at the sky, blue and firm, a broad and strong backdrop for the puffy clouds to bounce upon, and I felt glad to be alive. Joyful. I wanted to slip outside and run on the wet grass, race so fast that the air would explode in my lungs, but then I thought of Sammy and I hated myself. It’s a betrayal to be glad, for even a moment.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said Lydia gently.
Cecily turned to her looking dissatisfied, as though she was saddened by her friend’s lack of empathy or acknowledgement. It must have cost her to admit something so pitiful.
‘I know about your officer.’
‘Did Sarah tell you?’
‘I heard her and Beatrice talking a week or so ago.’
‘I suppose you condemn me, like everyone else.’
Cecily didn’t answer the question; instead she asked, ‘What’s he like?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, what’s he really like? Why him? I’ve known you for years now, Lydia, and it’s not like you to be inappropriate or reckless. Why now? Why him?’
‘From the moment I met him, everything changed. I didn’t even want it to particularly, but it did. I realised he was everything. Everything that was important. Now, when I’m not with him, even for an hour, let alone a day or a week, there’s a feeling of emptiness where his exciting and thought-provoking presence has been.’ Cecily nodded slowly. ‘You talk of how I used to be, but I feel completely altered. I have no way of accessing the woman I was before him, because she wasn’t really there anyhow. She was, I was, half formed. And now, now I don’t know how to go back to the old world. I don’t even want to. It’s all pretend occupation and random and wretched chatter.’
Cecily reached out and took hold of Lydia’s hand. ‘Is it deep, and hard? Almost painful but breathtaking at the same time? When he’s with you? When he’s in you?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ Lydia whispered, relieved to give the words life at last.
‘And you have to have him. All the time. Is that how it feels?’
‘It is.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. I remember that.’ Cecily’s eyes sparkled with the threat of tears. ‘I understand.’
Lydia closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in a sense of release. Her friends had fought her so ferociously on this; telling her that he was unreliable and untouchable. Insisting that a lifestyle was to be valued over life itself. Finally, someone understood her.
‘Like you, I’ve changed beyond recognition, beyond my own memory. I can’t remember her.’ Cecily picked up the solid album and pointed to her wedding photo. ‘I can’t remember that bride who existed in a blur of soft edges and misty romance. For her there was only music, dancing, laced undergarments and Sammy. Sammy in his masculine glory. She was so curious, so vital. So alive. He was all that too! I was just discovering him. My thighs ached with the exploration. Now it’s my back that aches, pulling him off chairs and out of bed, lowering him down in the water closet and into that damned chair. My back aches and my heart. You’ve sat with him, Lydia. You know how it is. Does he look or sound like a hero to you?’ Lydia made an effort to stay absolutely still. She could not risk uttering a comment. Sammy looked nothing like a hero, or even any sort of a man. He was a half. ‘Don’t accept what they’ve left you with, Lydia. You don’t have to. If you want your sergeant major, go and get him. Take everything you can, while you can. Do it for those of us who are resigned to our destinies. Be greedy. Be alive.’
46
JANICE DICKENSON WAS sick with fear. Her hands shook and she could feel a small line of sweat trickle down her back. Her maid’s uniform was often uncomfortably airless, designed for modesty and propriety rather than comfort, so she had suffered in the long sleeves and dark colour this scorching summer, but the heat she felt now was less to do with the temperature and more to do with an overwhelming sense of anguish and panic. Her mistress was going to ruin them both.
Miss Lydia (because that was how Janice referred to her mistress in her head, having never got used to Lady Chatfield, let alone the Countess of Clarendale) had returned home from Mrs Sarah Gordon’s place in a hurry. Janice had thought this was a good sign. She thought the friends had done their duty by persuading her mistress to remember her responsibilities. She thought this silly gadding about had come to an end. Then Miss Lydia had asked her to send a telegram to Sergeant Major Trent, as a matter of extreme urgency.
Can’t live without you Stop I’ll meet you at yours Stop 2 o’clock Thursday Stop
This was bad. Wrong. Janice wasn’t a fool; months ago she had begun to suspect Miss Lydia was having an affair. On countless occasions she had fastened her mistress’s brassiere and dropped a silk camisole over her breasts; she had carefully drawn silk stockings over her mistress’s feet and smoothed them up her legs. She’d listened to her conversations, drawn her baths, sent her telegrams and letters. She knew every inch of her. She’d been disappointed, but not surprised. Miss Lydia had always been a bit too pretty and pouty – rarely did any good come from that – and the sergeant major was glorious! Irresistible. Janice had seen him for herself, and he was undoubtedly the sort of man who took your breath away. Could steal your heart away. Besides, for the upper crust, affairs and grand passions seemed to be par for the course. Janice knew as much. They were all at it. Her own sort didn’t go in for that type of thing so much. Admittedly, there would always be fellas who drank too much and got what they could on the side, but her own mother, sisters and friends would never think of it. They were all too exhausted – with work and childbearing – to scrub up enough to try it on with some other bloke. The rich were idle. That was the problem. They had too much time on their hands, and love affairs seemed to be their greatest distraction. Indeed, Janice thought just about everything else they did was simply a prelude to their affairs, or a way of facilitating them. The parties, the riding, the hunting; it was all about sex in the end. Janice believed there would be a damned sight fewer disruptive goings-on among the upper classes if th
ey only had to scrub their own back steps or wash their own sheets, come to that.
She had sent the telegram. She’d had no choice. Miss Lydia had asked for a receipt and, besides, even if she hadn’t sent it, her mistress would have found some other way of getting word to this man. If she had sent the message with another maid then there would be sure to be trouble. The others weren’t as careful as Janice was herself. Gossips. No loyalty. No understanding of which side of the bread the butter was on. Besides, she’d thought the telegram referred to just another rendezvous. One of a number. Illicit, but not a catastrophe. Now she understood it was so much more.
Lydia had spent the day rushing around her room, collecting up clothes and shoes, books and jewels. She’d barked unclear, constantly changing instructions at Janice as to what should be packed.
‘How long will we be in London, my lady? A week?’
‘Maybe more.’ Lydia was vague, flustered. She paused from rooting through her tray of make-up and turned to her maid. ‘Do you know what, Dickenson? I don’t think you need come. Not at first.’
‘At first, my lady?’ Janice was confused. The travelling was the arduous aspect of going to London. There was interaction with the chauffeur, train conductor and ticket inspector at this end. It was always bothersome, sometimes fearful. Then when they arrived in London, the transfer of luggage had to be handled, taxis had to be hailed. Those were Janice’s jobs.
‘I shall send for you,’ added Lydia.
‘Send for me?’
‘Yes, in a week or two. In fact, I’ll send for all of this.’ Her mistress gestured around the room; she looked fraught for an instant and then uninterested. ‘Just pack the essentials.’
‘Essentials?’
‘Day clothes, underwear, shoes. Flat ones.’
‘Won’t you need any evening wear, my lady? Nothing glamorous?’ Janice was shocked.
‘Well, maybe one or two, but try to keep it light. I really can’t carry it all alone.’ Then, almost to herself, as she started to root through her bedside cabinet, she added, ‘Besides, where would it go? What use will it be?’
Janice thought of the vast wardrobes in the London house on Eaton Square and couldn’t imagine there might ever be an issue of storage. Then it dawned on her: her mistress wasn’t going to Eaton Square.
Lydia continued to rush around the room. Despite her affirmations that she wouldn’t need to dress glamorously, she pulled out her turquoise satin dress, the one that had what Janice had once heard Miss Ava Pondson-Callow describe as an ‘almost vulgar amount’ of diamanté beading, and threw it in the suitcase. She then selected a champagne-coloured two-piece. The lace chemise bodice was lined with silk and fell to a ruched dropped waistband. The skirt was a mass of accordion pleats in silver and gold bands, hemmed with georgette. She chose blue shoes with a heel. By the time she was fully dressed, she looked perhaps more stunning than Janice had ever seen her before. It was the smile.
‘I need you to be an angel, Dickenson. See that the earl gets this envelope, this evening. It’s probably best you take it to him after he’s had supper but before he has his port. Don’t forget, will you?’ Janice would have taken offence – had she ever, in all her years of service, forgotten to deliver a message or complete a task to the best of her ability, politely, efficiently and discreetly? No, she had not – but then Miss Lydia pulled her into a tight and unprecedented hug. ‘You’ll be fine, Janice,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve managed all that for you. I promise.’
The physical intimacy was surprising enough. The words were horrifying.
From a window on the second floor, Janice watched the countess scurry to the waiting Rolls-Royce. From her viewpoint she could see the brilliant green lawns where she had often witnessed guests sprinkled in indolence enjoying the hospitality of the old earl. Some would sit under the shade of the trees; others would take a stroll or play croquet. In her mind she could hear their laughter and the knock of the croquet mallets. She’d often watched other people having fun, while enviously living a fine life by proxy and longing for the day when Lydia would become countess and Janice herself would be one step closer to this magical, glorious world. How could Miss Lydia take it all for granted? Stop seeing the charm and advantage?
With trembling fingers Janice opened the letter.
47
LYDIA HAD ONE stop to make before she relinquished all her influence and power in the society she had grown up in. She had telephoned ahead and arranged to meet Sir Peter Pondson-Callow at Claridge’s. She did momentarily wonder what people might think if she was spotted at a hotel with Sir Peter, an infamous, although ageing, philanderer, and then she remembered it hardly mattered; it was only a question of days until her reputation would be beyond redemption. There would not be a charge of sluttish behaviour that was too low or too outlandish to be tossed her way. People who had done worse and believed in nothing would hoist and fly flags of morality and outrage. She knew it would be like that. It was her choice and she was content. Funny, but universal condemnation felt a lot like freedom.
Although Lydia was prompt, Sir Peter was already waiting for her when she arrived. He was impeccable in a tailor-made suit and ludicrously expensive shoes, yet he looked anxious, and a little bit smaller and wider than Lydia remembered him to be. His almost frightening good looks had long since mellowed into an air of distinction, but today, as a result of Lydia calling and saying she needed to talk about Ava as a matter of urgency, he appeared somewhat careworn and less suavely debonair than usual. Lydia was pleased; she needed him to care. He had to.
His hospitality was, as usual, generous to the point where it was bordering on the oppressive. As their meeting was at eleven forty-five, Sir Peter was unsure what they should eat or drink, and yet he felt responsible for the young woman’s sustenance. He offered croissants, fruit salad and salmon and eggs; when Lydia demurred and said it was too late for breakfast, he suggested they pick something from the à la carte menu. Lydia politely declined, protesting that it was too early for a formal meal.
‘A drink, at least.’
‘Yes, that would be lovely.’
‘Coffee? Sherry? A cocktail?’
‘I’ll take an elderflower cordial, please.’
He seemed relieved that she’d finally accepted something and swiftly gave instructions to the waiter who had been hovering, desperate to offer service, as Sir Peter was known for rewarding with big tips.
In a display of manners triumphing over desire, Sir Peter also ordered an elderflower cordial, but when it arrived he caught Lydia’s expression and asked, ‘Am I likely to need something stronger?’
‘Perhaps,’ she replied, her voice hinting at an apology.
‘Bring me a whisky,’ he instructed the waiter curtly. ‘Single malt, nothing before the turn of the century.’
They were seated in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby, away from the through traffic that trailed up and down the grand staircase and to and from the bar and restaurant. Lydia and Ava had often partied in the ballroom; Lydia imagined she could hear echoes of Gershwin and jazz, the tap of heels stepping out the foxtrot, the Charleston. It had been a bold move calling Sir Peter, but Lydia was certain that she was doing the right thing. She had at last found her voice.
‘So, Lady Clarendale, to what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?’ Pondson-Callow was a man who liked to get to the point. His time was valuable; he made sure people knew as much, but he knew it above everyone else.
‘Lydia, please.’ Lydia sipped her cordial and wondered how best to phrase it. She knew enough about men to realise that Sir Peter was the sort she had to captivate; not in a sexual sense – being such a close friend of his daughter’s immunised her against his attentions – but he demanded entertainment from everyone he spoke to. He expected women to be decorative and purposeful; that was the reason Ava was such a hit. He’d always had high expectations. ‘I’m here because I want to ask you: what do you think of your daughter?’
‘That’s a bizarre question.’
‘Impertinent, too. I realise as much.’
Sir Peter drew back his shoulders. ‘I think she is an especially impressive young woman,’ he announced with pride and confidence.
‘Agreed. I’m quite sure you love her,’ added Lydia. She wanted to ingratiate herself, win him over; at the moment he looked solid and defensive. It was unlikely he’d ever had to negotiate such a strange and unwieldy conversation before. He reminded her of an ancient medieval king. The sort who had kicked, clawed and scrambled into power, then ruled sternly yet wisely; the sort who had never forgotten what he came from and was always prepared to jump back into action and go into battle, if necessary.
‘Is my daughter in some sort of trouble?’ asked Sir Peter, with an apprehensive sigh.
‘Yes.’
He swirled the amber-coloured whisky around the glass and avoided Lydia’s eye. Then he lowered his voice and coughed. ‘Is there a child?’
Lydia was startled. For a moment she thought Sir Peter was talking about her own baby, and nearly blurted out the wonderful truth before she understood his meaning.
‘No.’
‘Thank God for that.’ His relief was palpable; it was a difficult, indelicate conversation. Lydia could only imagine how her own father was going to receive the news she would have to deliver soon; she didn’t dare think of that right now, and shoved the thought aside. It was important to stay on track. ‘Not that I’m suggesting that it’s even a possibility,’ Sir Peter blustered, recovering. The Pondson-Callows weren’t the sort to leave themselves exposed for a moment longer than necessary.
