The Very Thought of You

by Rosie Alison

  But there was no answer – nor could she hear any sound. And shouting made her splutter and choke with dust. She was completely buried in the front basement-well of a terraced house.

  She assumed that any minute now she would hear cheery shouts, and gallant firefighters would pull her out with offers of milky tea. But no voices came. She realized that the fire engines must be over by the river warehouses. A few rogue bombs in Kensington could hardly attract a furry of firemen. And the house looked so deserted: perhaps the neighbours had assumed that nobody was at risk.

  “Help! Help!” she cried, till she was hoarse, and with each yell she breathed in more dust and sucked away more air.

  Claustrophobia began to suffocate her, and a terror that she might die when she could so easily be rescued. “Help! Help me!”

  She thought of Billy, just up the road in the shelter. Lewis, in Egypt, preparing for another day in the Western Desert. And her daughter, asleep in her Yorkshire dormitory. All of them oblivious to what might be her last hours in a random London street. She was not ready to finish her life – surely she could not be cut off so haphazardly?

  The minutes seeped away, and a rising panic began to take hold of her stiffening body. Her lungs were heaving, and sweat poured down her face. She felt nauseous, with head spins. Would anybody find her? Of course they would. Soon she would hear pickaxes and shovels scooping away at the rubble. She must wait, just wait.

  Yet still there was no sound.

  Her panic came and went in waves. Would she see Anna again? Her beloved daughter whom she had so – abandoned. They could have been dancing down the street and laughing together – but all that would be denied to Anna now.

  She wondered if this was God’s way of punishing her. A pang of regret made her cry out loud, but it was no use. Her own selfishness had ruined her daughter’s life. Anna’s eyes flashed before her. She would never have a mother to teach her female secrets, or praise her budding beauty.

  How could she have let her daughter go? She should have visited Yorkshire more often, or found work and lodgings outside London for the pair of them. But she had given all that up, for what? For an affair which lit up her senses.

  She had always thought there would be time to be with Anna, and eat ice cream with her again, in tall glasses—

  The air was thickening now, and she was fading. As her life leaked away, she grew calmer. Lewis would return from the war, to look after their child, there was that hope. She thought of him with love, and prayed for his safety in Egypt. She ended her conscious life repeating all the litanies she could remember, praying rhythmically, concentrating all her strength on Anna, beseeching God to let her own love reach through the night to her sleeping daughter.

  All the while, dust was clogging the air, until Roberta could breathe no more. After four hours trapped under the rubble, she was finally released from her anguish and gave up her ghost.

  It was several days before she was uncovered, by which time her body was beginning to decompose. Her papers were found damp but intact in her jacket pocket. It was her neighbour, an elderly postman, who helped the police with their inquiries when they came knocking at her door.

  The following Tuesday, Billy waited for her at their flat. When she did not turn up, at first he worried, but then he fell asleep assuming that she must have changed her work shift. The next day he tried to ring her at the BBC, where he heard the dreadful news.

  44

  When Miss Weir found Anna in the gardens and asked if she would follow her to Mr Ashton’s study, the girl worried at once that she was in trouble. Her stomach lurched as she wondered if she had been seen, after all, in the wardrobe with her tin of biscuits. But Miss Weir did not seem cross. She put a hand on her shoulder and steered her inside the house.

  Behind the heavy door of his study, Thomas was waiting for Anna with a gloomy heart. Ruth had told him that the news would come best from him in the quiet and privacy of his study. But she was such a blithe child – he wished he could prolong her ignorance.

  There was a light knock on his door.

  “Come in!” he said, as gently as he could. The child appeared, her face expectant, nervous. He saw that she was trembling, and remembered his own school fears, the headmaster, the canings.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ve done nothing wrong, Anna.”

  He moved his hand, as if he were about to speak, and yet no words came. Anna thought she could hear her own heart beating louder than the clock on his desk.

  “I have some difficult news to tell you, and you will have to be brave.”

  He could hear himself falling into phrases. Do I spin this out gently, he thought, or tell her straight off?

  The child looked puzzled, distant – hardly there, really. A surge of tenderness swept through him.

  “You’re a very special girl, my dear, I want you to remember that. You’re blessed with many gifts and you have a life waiting out there for you which will be – wonderful. You must look after yourself, and believe in yourself.”

  Anna was thrilled and baffled in equal measure. She felt dizzy and important. Was he planning a scholarship for her?

  “I’m, I’m afraid—” He looked down for a moment.

  My father is dead, Anna thought with a thump. My father is dead in the desert.

  He looked up.

  “Your mother has died in an air raid on London—”

  My mother has died. My mother.

  Anna was so shocked by the surprise that she felt sharply winded, as if her lungs had been punctured.

  “Oh,” she said. Her face opened wide. Mr Ashton looked up at her, his eyes serious and gentle – but it was as if she was seeing him through windows of thick uneven glass.

  “Oh no,” she said, and began to shake, clenched hands, clenched knees, and her body rattling.

  “I’m sorry,” He said, “I’m so sorry.”

  She did not feel as if her mother was dead. She was immune to the meaning of his words. The news passed through her, and she simply obeyed a blank reflex not to collapse, not to let any tears spill over, just to be brave.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “How do you know she is dead?”

  He hesitated.

  “They found her papers.”

  “Where?” She needed to know, wanted a picture, details.

  “She was – buried under a building which collapsed. Probably on her way home from work one night.”

  “Do you think it hurt?”

  “Oh no, I’m sure not – she would have died at once with no pain.”

  Anna stood there shivering, hardly taking in the information. Mr Ashton, at least, was sitting down. But her whole face and body felt as exposed as a naked cliff face. She did not know what to do, or say, or where to put her hands or her eyes. She felt a smile creeping over her face, and had a terrible fear that she would laugh.

  She shuddered instead. Mr Ashton held out a handkerchief – a large white handkerchief with ironed creases – and she pressed this to her face. She sank down in a chair, cupping her face in the handkerchief to stop Mr Ashton from seeing that she was giggling, not crying. She felt him come closer until he reached out to her shoulder. At the touch of his hand, her strange hilarity welled into tears, and she found herself sobbing rhythmically into the handkerchief.

  For some minutes they stayed there together in silence. He kept his hand firmly on her shoulder until her tears subsided, but her face remained buried in his handkerchief.

  What do you say to a girl who has just lost her mother? He could barely muster a word.

  “Would you like to stay in here for a while? You don’t have to go to lessons this afternoon—”

  Her head was ringing with odd phrases. No more Latin, no more French, no more sitting on the old school bench. At least I’ll miss my maths lesson, she thought.

  “I’m fine now,” she said to Mr Ashton, attempting to look up, hoping the laughter would not sweep
back. “I’ll go now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, standing.

  Her polite smile stung him: did etiquette really oblige her to thank him for reporting her mother’s death?

  “Just remember to ask if we can help you with anything—”

  She was fidgeting to get away now. Should he keep her back, not let her go, give her a biscuit, or what? She handed back the handkerchief.

  “Please – keep it,” He said, and she backed off, trying to leave the room now, thanking him again for the handkerchief, which she clutched into a crumpled ball in her hand.

  She was lucky not to meet anyone as she ducked out into the gardens, then escaped into the woods. Her breathing was shallow, but she ran without stopping until she reached her favourite old aspen grove. Nobody was watching. She hunkered down there on her own, and got back her breath as she folded the handkerchief into neat squares.

  Then she just sat there, shaking with laughter. She did not know why.

  * * *

  Anna only emerged from the woods for tea. Facing the enquiring eyes of the other children, that would be daunting. She went into the dining room knowing they would have been told about her news.

  “Where have you been?” asked Katy Todd.

  “In the woods.”

  “You missed maths. Fractions.”

  “I know. I can’t do fractions.”

  “Shall I help you with them?” chipped in another child.

  “I could help you,” said another.

  Help with fractions. A dead mother.

  She could see it in the avid faces of the other children, their guilty fascination to know what it might feel like to lose your mother. A part of her felt strangely important: an aristocrat of grief. But she felt self-conscious and exposed too. She was lucky that Miss Weir suddenly appeared and swept her up.

  “Would you like to come and pick some tomatoes with me? The cook has asked me to fetch her some.”

  She went with her gladly.

  They set out down the drive to the Victorian glasshouse. Miss Weir walked in a calm rhythm, putting Anna at ease.

  “You know, the Ashtons were amongst the first families in England to enjoy hothouse flowers and fruits.”

  “Why was that?”

  “They had an enlightened gardener. He gave them oranges, figs and grapes. And the gentlemen in those days always had carnations for their buttonholes.”

  “But we’re picking tomatoes?”

  “Well, carnations would hardly be the thing now, Anna.”

  She laughed, and Anna relaxed. They reached the glasshouse, muggy with stale heat and an odd stench of overripe fruit. Anna plucked the tomatoes for Miss Weir; she placed them in her basket, then locked the rusty door behind them.

  Their way back home was uphill, and neither spoke. But as they passed the last bend of the drive, Miss Weir turned and looked at Anna with her calm, gentle face.

  “If you ever want to talk about your mother, Anna, please do come to me. Don’t forget that we’re always here to help you—”

  Anna was shaken by her teacher’s gaze. Gratitude welled up in her, and for a moment she was connected with her deepest feelings, making her eyes fll up. But she clenched up her face, and they walked back up to the school, with Miss Weir quietly pointing out wild flowers which Anna had never noticed before.

  It was not until three nights later, once the other children had got used to her news and no longer whispered as she passed, that she cried in her bed at night, trying to remember her mother’s face.

  She could not remember the last words they had ever said to each other. Had she not just cried at their last parting? She thought, there were so many things I would have liked to tell you.

  Anna would never know if her mother had got her most recent letter. Worse still, she could not remember where she had put her mother’s last letter. She had read it a couple of times, but could hardly recall anything in it now. A new dance band playing at the BBC. Wondering if the spring sunshine was as fine in Yorkshire as it was in London. Was that it?

  She thought, I never said goodbye. I will never see her again. I will never send her the picture I’ve been drawing in art.

  She did not dare to ask the teachers about a funeral, because she guessed they would have told her if there was one to go to. What would her father think? Would they call him back from Africa?

  For days she searched for her mother’s final letter, but it was not in any locker or desk or anywhere she could think of. Every morning, she looked again. But it was gone.

  Instead, she carried around Mr Ashton’s white handkerchief as the token of her loss.

  45

  As he feared, Thomas sometimes said Ruth’s name in his sleep. For so long Elizabeth had been too drunk to notice such things, but one night she heard him. It puzzled her, and she began to be watchful.

  It had not occurred to her that Thomas could feel anything for another woman. But now she began to observe that he was exuding private contentment, that he was warm and animated when talking to Ruth at lunch. That they studiously avoided each other’s eyes.

  Was there some kind of complicity between them? Ruth seemed such a prim and formal girl that Elizabeth found it hard to believe that she would dare to flirt with her husband.

  But she was curious now. She started to lure Thomas once more into lovemaking at night, and found him responsive and passionate. But she saw that he closed his eyes, and she wondered if his desire was fired by thoughts of another body, another woman.

  She observed the young teacher. Ruth was unflashionable and awkward, and without obvious allure – how could she appeal to Thomas? But a part of Elizabeth grew jealous, because she knew that Ruth was intelligent. She was unwilling to admit that men might be drawn to female cleverness – and yet she could see that Thomas enjoyed his solemn, bookish conversations with the young teacher.

  At lunch, one day, she could not resist complimenting Ruth on the very ordinary dress that she was wearing.

  “It looks so pretty on you,” she said. Ruth blanched, and sensed the malice. Thomas did not register the insult.

  After the distress caused by Pawel’s departure, Elizabeth had slowly begun to revive. She had taken over the school’s practical management once again, and derived a new stimulus from this work. But she was capable of caustic impatience with those who irritated her; there was a bitter self-sufficiency in her which was forbidding to kitchen staff and teachers alike. The children were generally spared her sarcasm, and sometimes she would jest with them in their break times. But they were wary of her too, knowing that her mood could suddenly darken for no obvious reason, when she would turn abruptly and walk away.

  Thomas dreaded his wife’s random acts of petty violence. Sometimes these flared up when she was frustrated by one of their conversations in the bedroom. Or sometimes they were dredged from the resentful vortex of her silence. Suddenly she would smash a perfume bottle on the floor, or a china dish, just wanting to break something, unable to resist her own streak of high drama. Then she would coolly walk away, to do other things, leaving the splinters of glass or porcelain scattered around.

  Perhaps it was the chilly equilibrium of their marriage which provoked her, or perhaps she feared that Ashton Park wouldn’t always be filled with evacuated children. By the autumn of 1942, the tide of the war appeared to be turning at last: the Allies had triumphed at El Alamein, and Hitler’s army was haemorrhaging men in Russia, outnumbered by Stalin’s apparently limitless forces.

  But there were still frequent casualties on the home front, keeping the evacuees at Ashton. In January, the papers reported the tragedy of A school near London which was bombed as the children watched a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The school collapsed under a direct hit, and twenty-three schoolgirls were killed, together with four teachers. Parents worked through the night with defence workers to recover the children’s bodies. “Charles Alford, a gunner on leave, came to the scho
ol to find the corpse of his four-year-old daughter Brenda carried out from the debris,” read Thomas, stricken by such random young deaths.

  Bomb blasts were never more than a distant echo at Ashton, but there were occasional domestic mishaps. Two boys were playing a vigorous game of badminton in the Marble Hall one Saturday morning, when their shuttlecock hit the chandelier wire with particular force, putting the final stress on a fixture which had been quietly disintegrating for a hundred years. There was an ominous noise. The boys paused warily, then ran to one side as the chandelier came crashing down and shattered on the marble floor. The sound of breaking glass reverberated through the entire house.

  Thomas heard the noise, and hurried over to see what had happened. Stunned children lingered at the edge of the hall, staring at a sea of smashed crystal. Slivers of glass had scattered into every corner. He saw Elizabeth appear at the other side, followed by Ruth.

  Elizabeth took charge and called for brooms and buckets. From the gallery above the hall, Anna and the others gazed down onto the glinting shards. The carcass of the chandelier lay inert on the floor, with coloured lights shimmering through its prisms in a show of pointless magic. The glass crunched underfoot, and tinkled when brushed away.

  For months afterwards, the children were always finding tiny splinters of glass in every far-flung corner of the house, carried there on the soles of their shoes.

  * * *

  Ruth was unnerved by the broken chandelier; she took it as a sign. How long could she and Thomas go on as lovers before the whole precarious edifice of his life came crashing down? She was afraid of Elizabeth and her cool hard glances.

  Nonsense, said Thomas; it was just an old wire. But he, too, was anxious to find a way forwards. He had no wish to continue hiding Ruth as his mistress, but he wanted to be sure that she really did want to be with him. Had their consummation marked the end of an infatuation or the beginning of a deeper bond? The months went by, and it felt to him as if they were growing closer to each other all the time.

  But he still worried about the difference in their ages, and about his disability. He knew she ought to have children of her own, and that he should put her off, really, not let her get stuck with him through a sense of honour. Yet he sensed that sometimes odd love, unexpected love, could create a deeper union. At least so he tried to tell himself.