The Faithful

by Juliet West

  ‘Finished!’ she said. ‘Your turn.’

  Hazel unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it.

  ‘Oh, bravo.’ Lucia raised her sunglasses and gazed at Hazel. ‘You came prepared . . . and what a sublime shade of blue.’

  They swam against the incoming tide, cresting the waves, lazing on their backs in the deeper water with their eyes closed to the sun. The sea had seemed cold at first but now they felt miraculously warm – you could almost be in Cannes, Lucia said – and they began speaking to each other in French, giggling at their poor pronunciation. J’adore la plage. La mer, c’est magnifique.

  Hazel soon ran out of French phrases, and Lucia became quiet, still drifting on her back with her eyes shut. Hazel looked up at the gulls that wheeled and squawked overhead. At first she mistook the high-pitched scream for a young gull, mewling for its mother. Then the cry came again, and she turned her head to see a small hand in the distance, disappearing under the water.

  Instinctively she began to swim, to swim with all her strength towards the ripples where the hand had been. It wasn’t too far, perhaps twenty yards, and she reached the spot just as a young boy’s head surfaced and his arms raised again, thrashing in panic. He looked no older than seven or eight and the skin around his lips was a strange grey-blue. Hazel grabbed him around the waist and cried out herself in surprise as his weight pulled her under too. Water gushed into her mouth, closed over her head, a deafening rush of bubbles.

  They sank fast, and her feet grazed against a limpet-covered rock on the seabed. She pushed up and they began to rise, but the boy clamped himself to her, his body cold and slippery with panic. They were sinking again.

  It was as if he was trying to kill her and in that moment she despised him. You will not win, she thought. You will not win. Her breath bubbled away, up and up towards the light, but she could not follow it, and now she had none left, and a pain began to rasp in her chest and there was a strange singing in her ears.

  Think. She must think.

  Under the arms, that was it. Grab him under the arms. How many times had she watched the demonstrations, the lifesaving teams on the sands each summer? The boy’s grip began to slacken and she manoeuvred herself underneath him, hooked one arm under his, then pushed up again from the rock. Their bodies surged to the surface. As she gasped fresh air she heard a woman shouting, and the whoosh of a laboured breaststroke.

  Hazel turned onto her back, and tried to keep the boy’s limp body above water, his head half-resting on her chest. Now that she had managed a few snatched breaths she was strong enough to swim again. She kicked on her back for several yards until she was sure she must be back in her depth. Yes, her foot now balanced on a slimy rock. She held the boy to her as he spluttered and shook.

  ‘Is it Leonard? Is it Leonard?’ The shouting woman was shrieking now, half-swimming, half-walking towards them. Hazel hadn’t the energy to respond, even if she had known his name. She could think only of the pain in her lungs and the violent tremble that ran through her body.

  ‘I think it is Leonard, Mrs Winters,’ Lucia called. She had swum to Hazel’s side, and she was reaching out towards the boy. ‘We just got there in time. Here, I’ll take him now, Hazel,’ she said in a breathless whisper. ‘You must be exhausted.’

  ‘Bring him in,’ said Mrs Winters. ‘Quick, Lucia, quick. I can’t imagine what he was thinking. Striking off on his own like that. Wait till I get him back to camp.’

  They waded to the shore. Mrs Winters herded the other boys into a group and told them all to get dressed. Leonard vomited onto the stones, then lay on his side with his knees up, shivering, as Hazel crouched beside him and rubbed his back.

  Lucia walked off, reappearing with their towels. She had thrown her clothes on, and the scarlet silk clung to her wet costume like dark blood. Draping her towel over Leonard, she helped him to stand. ‘I have to take him back,’ she said to Hazel. ‘Do you need anything? A doctor? There’s one at the camp, I believe.’

  ‘I’m fine, just getting my breath.’

  ‘Little rascal would’ve drowned if it hadn’t been for us. Here –’ she placed Hazel’s towel and dress next to her – ‘your things. I’ll come and see you this evening, shall I?’

  ‘It’s fine. Honestly no need. I think I’ll go straight to bed.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then. Take care.’ Lucia blew her a kiss as she walked away.

  Hazel wrapped the towel around her shoulders and lay back, using her beach dress as a pillow. The sun felt warm on her skin. Her breathing was easier now and she was desperate to sleep. She ought to go home, she thought, but she would stay here just a moment, close her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Hazel sat up. Someone stood above her, his face eclipsing the sun. She recognized his voice. Hushed, deep. It was him, she was sure of it.

  ‘I saw what you did,’ he said.

  ‘I should have got there sooner. I thought it was a gull crying out . . .’ Her eyes were level with his knees. Shell fragments and sand grains clung to his skin.

  ‘I wanted to help, but I was too far away. Couldn’t reach you.’

  She shivered, remembering the drowning boy’s arms clamped around her neck, heaving her down. The towel fell from her shoulders and he crouched to drape it back around her. She felt his fingers on the top of her arm. There was a cut on his palm, she noticed, the edges whitened by seawater. Their faces were level now. The wind gusted and she could smell his skin, hot and salty.

  ‘You saved his life, though I think your friend might take the credit.’

  ‘Lucia?’

  There was a call from the far end of the beach. ‘Smart!’ Mrs Winters was waving him over. Hazel could just see Lucia disappearing through the gate, clutching Leonard by the top of his arm, a gaggle of greyshirt boys following behind.

  ‘Better go,’ he said, standing up. ‘Sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps I’ll see you later?’

  He paused and brushed sand from his arm. ‘The garden?’

  ‘I thought you might come last night. I . . . I waited.’

  ‘You did?’ He crouched again, splayed his fingers on the stones to steady himself. His knee pressed against her thigh and the contact sent a startling ache through her body.

  ‘I’ll come tonight,’ he said. And then he reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth.

  It seemed to Hazel as if all the air had been sucked from the summer sky, as if the waves had folded into themselves and fallen still. The boy kissed the skin close to her wrist, kept his lips there for a second or two, and it was only when Mrs Winters called again that he let her hand drop, stood and turned away, unspeaking.

  She lay back and closed her eyes. The ache was still there, but it was a bearable pain, a pain that was somehow necessary. The seagulls’ cries began to detach from her consciousness, the waves shushed her and she fell into a dream, a black dream in which she was underground, following a tiny beam of light. She did not hear the approaching whine of the aeroplane, but when it was overhead the engine’s howl shook her from sleep and she blinked up at the underside of the fuselage. The Fury was polished to an impossible shine, the dazzle so bright it seemed to imprint on her eyes, and even when she squeezed them shut she could not blot out the glare.

  11

  Francine stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and held the yellow dress up to her body. It was pretty, rather girlish, with a bow in the centre of the high neckline. Hazel would be pleased with it, she felt sure. She hoped she’d guessed the size correctly. Alarming how Hazel had transformed over this past year. Not just her figure, but her manner, too. She wore a permanent sullen look that seemed to accuse her mother, silently, of goodness knows what. The days of idolatry were over, and in truth Francine couldn’t help feeling relieved that Hazel no longer worshipped her as she once had. Sometimes it was sweet, but as the years went by it became irritating, that doe-eyed gaze of adoration, and the way Hazel would slip away from Nanny Felix and follow Fr
ancine around the house or the garden – even the bathroom, for heaven’s sake – always wanting a song, or a game of snap, pestering her to listen to the latest tune she was attempting to learn on the piano. The girl had needed a brother or a sister, that was plain enough. But a brother or a sister simply hadn’t come along. And now, of course, it was far too late for all that.

  She folded the yellow dress back into the tissue paper and took out the crimson satin nightgown. She would wear it tonight; it would be a surprise for Charles when he came back from his appointment, if she was still awake. Such a bore that he had to go out this evening after all. They had arranged dinner at Veeraswamy, but at lunchtime wretched Dr Cutler had telephoned to say that the meeting with the Chislehurst client – cancelled last month – was now back on. The client was a ditherer, kept changing her mind, but Dr Cutler had said she was somebody important whom they couldn’t possibly afford to turn down. So at six Charles had taken a taxi to Charing Cross, promising to be home by midnight, and once again Francine found herself alone, with no one but Jean scuttling around the basement kitchen, attempting to cook up a light meal. A simple soufflé, Francine had suggested, perhaps some asparagus.

  She lay the nightgown on her pillow, stroked the satin and sighed. Footsteps passed on the street outside and Francine moved across to the window to look down onto the pavement. She watched a young woman in high-heeled sandals click-clacking on the arm of a dashingly tall man. Were they married, she wondered, or engaged? What fun they would have, this balmy evening in Mayfair. How wonderful to be young and in love.

  Her stomach groaned and she realized she had not eaten since their late breakfast. She would have the soufflé . . . and then what? There were the friends from her dancing days, Harriett or Flick, or perhaps Deborah Leigh. She could telephone the old gang, whip up an impromptu gathering. But it had been months – over a year, probably – since they had been in touch. Harriett and Jeremy’s wedding anniversary, wasn’t it, a rainy garden party in Hampstead the previous summer? It was around the time of Paul’s first trip to Paris. She had gone alone to the party, drunk too many brandy cocktails, and found herself staying overnight in Harriett’s guest room. Had she heard from Harriett since that weekend? She couldn’t remember receiving a Christmas card.

  Francine took an address book from her handbag and went downstairs to the telephone. She’d try Flick first. Flick was always game. But there was no answer at her flat, and when she rang Deborah’s house, a maid answered, informing her that the family would be in Hertfordshire until late August. Was it worth trying Harriett? Francine remembered Harry’s cool eyes the morning after the garden party, some upset over a broken decanter. No . . . she shut the address book, picked up the phone and asked for the Bognor Regis exchange.

  The operator put her through, and in no time Mrs Waite had picked up, her curious faux telephone voice bringing a smile to Francine’s lips though she had heard it a hundred times. There was the unavoidable small talk – yes, it was still hot in Aldwick though the wind had got up, no, still not a drop of rain and the lawn was looking parched. Once the pleasantries were dispensed with, Mrs Waite went to fetch Hazel from her bedroom.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Darling. Are you having a good week?’

  ‘The telephone works, then?’ said Hazel. She sounded cross, not a hint of pleasure or gratitude at hearing her mother’s voice.

  ‘Oh, yes. All fixed. Are you having fun, darling? Have you been into the town with Bronny?’

  There was a hesitation, a crackle on the line, and Francine wondered if they’d been cut off. ‘Hazel?’

  ‘Sorry, yes, everything is fine. It’s still very hot. We went bathing this afternoon.’

  ‘Bathing? Lovely. Shall I ring again tomorrow?’

  ‘There’s no need, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. The day after that, then. I’ll ring on Friday. But I wanted to tell you about the summer dress I found you in Selfridges, and a super little hat . . .’

  Hazel listened and muttered a grudging thank-you. She asked Francine when she would be home.

  ‘Monday, I should think. I have engagements over the weekend.’ Francine decided against mentioning the tickets Charles had bought for Anything Goes at the Palace. She’d come home sooner if it wasn’t for that, but she did so love Cole Porter. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you, until Monday? You haven’t fallen out with Bronny?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine, Mother.’ Hazel sounded brighter. ‘I’m having a perfectly good time.’

  ‘Well, that’s marvellous. Goodbye, darling.’ Francine blew a kiss into the receiver, but the line was already dead.

  She sat heavily on the stool at the telephone table. There was a greasy smell drifting from the open door that led down to the kitchen. She picked up the address book and fanned herself with it, then flicked through the pages until she reached X, Y, Z, a single entry for Martha and Richard Yelland. The Yellands had moved to America, the last she heard. New York, or Boston.

  At the very back of the address book was a pouch where Francine had stored a few Kodak prints. She took them out and looked at each one: Hazel with a crab net on the rocks at Pagham; her mother and father under the yacht-club awning, two or three years before they died; Hazel with Cocoa, the little cat who had disappeared over the back wall one day and never returned. Finally, there was the photograph taken in Siena, where she and Paul had spent a fortnight in 1920. She’d forgotten about this picture, and the sight of it unnerved her. How odd to see the two of them together, smiling. Their bodies touching. They both looked so happy.

  A knot of regret tightened in her gut. A large gin would loosen that. Music on the gramophone. Never failed.

  The clock in the drawing room struck seven.

  She shoved the snapshots back into the pouch and shut the address book. Photographs could make one feel so maudlin. She must concentrate all her energies on the present. She had Charles, hadn’t she? It didn’t matter that they could never be married, that he was tied to Carolyn and her bountiful wealth. She and Charles loved each other, had always loved each other, even during the many years apart.

  But if only Charles were here now. Loneliness began to creep, like a sharp fingernail sliding across her heart, and Francine couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Dinner is ready, Mrs Alexander.’ Jean appeared in the hallway, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other. Such unfortunate large feet, lumped on the end of those sparrow ankles.

  ‘Thank you, Jean. I’ll take it in the drawing room on a tray. And bring me a glass with ice, would you?’

  Francine opened the drinks cabinet, took out a bottle of gin and set it on the side. She pulled a record from the stack next to the gramophone. The first track happened to be Duke Ellington, ‘Cocktails for Two’. Ah well, she thought – the least she could do was pour a double.

  Francine spritzed her face with soda water and slumped into the armchair. Strangely enervating, dancing alone. How many records had she stepped on? Only one, wasn’t it, the Sophie Tucker? The cracked disc was over by the standard lamp. She’d have to hide that; Charles need never know.

  The smell of soufflé lingered and suddenly a sharp taste of bile flooded Francine’s mouth. It was so hot in the room; no wonder she felt seedy. Fresh air would help. She stood and swayed across the floor, almost tripping on the tasselled rug. As she forced up the top sash with the heels of her hands, a heavy scent drifted in: the neighbour’s plants, roses and lavender, their perfumes mingling as they had in the Lostwithiel garden.

  Francine stumbled back to the armchair and closed her eyes, praying for the strength to bat away the memories. It was no good. She was too weak; it was easier to give in, to find herself back in the four-wheeled trap, lurching along the rutted track, packed tightly between her brother and their parents, suitcases stowed beneath their feet. Each moment replayed with perfect clarity, a cinema reel unspooling. From the high lane she could see down the valley into Lostwithiel, the wooded hill and the church spire
rising beyond the rows of slate-roofed cottages.

  ‘Charming,’ muttered Francine’s mother, pressing a hand to her tight-corseted midriff. The muscles in her neck flexed in an effort not to grimace. ‘So very rustic.’

  The trap stopped at the end of the lane outside a large red-brick villa. Mrs Lassiter appeared smiling at the gate, waving with excitement to see her London friends after so many years. In the lee of the porch, half hidden by a brick pillar, Francine saw the shadowy figure of a boy.

  The boy was Charles, the Lassiters’ only child, and Francine had overheard her mother talking about him to her father, explaining how difficult Charles had become, tending towards melancholy when left alone. He was rude to his governess, and had once gone missing for the best part of a day, found at dusk playing jacks with two young girls in the squalid backyard of a local tanner.

  Francine and Edward were to befriend Charles during their two-week stay. He needed playmates, they were told, and the three children were close in age – each a year apart, almost exactly, with Charles in the middle. Yet somehow, as they sat silently together on the first evening, this closeness in age made them wary. Francine was eleven and she hated being the youngest. She wished that Charles had been a few years younger, because then at least they might have made a pet of him, and perhaps he would look up to his visitors rather than treat them as intruders.

  By the third day, however, Charles showed signs of acceptance. They began to go on outings with Miss Heath, the desiccated governess, to the ruined castle at Restormel or to St Austell. When it was too warm for outings they took fishing rods down to the River Fowey where it ran through the town. Miss Heath accompanied them with her sketchbook, sitting on a fold-up chair on the grassy bank of the river, dozing between pencil strokes so that her drawings always looked fragmented, incomplete. Sometimes Miss Heath let Francine draw in the sketchbook, and Francine was grateful for her praise – praise that was never forthcoming from her own governess at home in Highgate.