by Juliet West
After breakfast a British commander appeared on the parade ground to brief the new arrivals. A fresh consignment of rifles was on its way, he said. Full training would be given – target practice, skirmishing, trench digging, grenade throwing. In rest periods there would be political lectures from the battalion commissar. All men were encouraged to write home. ‘Not just to your loved ones but to your local parties, your MPs and your newspapers,’ said the commander. ‘We must keep the cause in the public eye.’
Tom listened carefully. He’d write home all right. But it wouldn’t be simply a letter to the News Chronicle, it would be a full-blown report. Mr Crow knew he was out here, had even wished him luck on his last day. ‘Keep in touch,’ Crow had said, and Tom wouldn’t let him down. He’d already been promoted from messenger to copyboy. If he could write some decent stuff out here, get a piece published, he might be given a chance as a reporter once he got back home.
‘Make no mistake –’ the commander’s voice was grave now – ‘this is a dangerous war, a lethal war, and many loyal comrades have already laid down their lives. But we have something that Franco’s forces will never have. We have democracy and freedom, and above all, we have the will of the people on our side!’
The recruits cheered and raised their fists into the air.
‘Written to your mother yet?’ asked Jacob. They had finished another game of cards, and the Derbyshire boys had drifted off in search of more wine.
‘Not yet. You?’
‘She thinks I’m acting in Paris,’ he laughed. ‘Suppose I’ll have to own up sooner or later. What did you tell your lot?’
‘The truth.’ It hadn’t occurred to Tom to lie to his parents. But Jacob was an actor, so presumably he’d be good at spinning a line. ‘Might have been kinder to lie, now I think of it,’ added Tom. ‘The old girl wasn’t best pleased.’
‘I’ll bet. And what about sweethearts? Someone pining for you back in Lewisham?’
He thought of Jillie and her big pleading eyes, Jillie plucking at his shirt and begging him not to go to Spain.
‘Her name’s Hazel,’ he said, closing his mouth in surprise.
‘What’s she like?’
Well, he’d said it now. And what a thrill it was to speak her name aloud! Hazel, Hazel.
‘Ginger Rogers. But from Bognor.’
Jacob laughed. ‘You’re lucky then. I had a fiancée but . . . it wasn’t to be. For Fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect Loves, nor lets them close: Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic power depose.’ He pulled a piece of straw from his palliasse and put it between his teeth. ‘Marvell.’
‘Perhaps it’s easier not to have anyone,’ said Tom, though he realized as he spoke that he was wrong. Love was painful, but it was a pain you had to bear. It was a pain that meant you were alive.
The shelter felt colder that night and Tom found it difficult to sleep. His palliasse butted against the sloping timber wall, and a keen east wind blew in through the gaps. Tomorrow he’d stuff up the holes with twigs and pine leaves. He wished he’d drunk more wine; Jacob and the Derbyshire pair had downed flask after flask, and they seemed to have drifted off without any trouble. Queer the way they let you drink at the camp. It was the Spanish way, he supposed. Wine was like water.
He turned onto his back and looked at the starlight blinking through the shelter roof. Tom wondered whether it might get boring at the camp if they were stuck here for weeks. There was nothing much to do until the rifles arrived, and nothing much to write yet for the Chronicle. He decided that tomorrow he would write his letters home. One for Jillie – a brief note would do, she wasn’t much of a reader – one for Hazel and one for his mum and dad.
Something was nagging at his brain but he couldn’t pin it down. A scene at Boone Street, a conversation with his mother. No, not a conversation, an argument he’d overheard. He’d been creeping down the stairs with some papers that Bill was waiting for. His mum was agitated. You promised you’d love him the same, Harold. And then something about coming home to roost. What was coming home to roost? She was rambling, upset about Spain. In truth she’d become a little hysterical.
He pulled the thick blanket tighter around his body. He’d been so determined and bloody-minded before he left; there’d been no space in his mind for guilt. But now, when he thought of his mum, his conscience got the better of him. Still, there was nothing he could do about it while he was here. Best to put Boone Street out of his mind. Silently he began to list his egg collection in alphabetical order. He was asleep before he reached the jay.
23
How quiet the house was without Mrs Waite. Francine heard a tap-tap and listened – someone knocking at the door? – but it was only a hot-water pipe clicking in the bathroom. She sighed and drew a line of black kohl under her right eye. The skin puckered and dragged.
When her lips were done she picked up the postcard that was propped against her dressing-table mirror. It was a picture of the Grenadier Guards leaving Buckingham Palace. She turned over the card and read the message again. Just another note to let you know we are well and happy and there is no need to worry. I will be in touch properly soon. Love, Hazel. No mention of the letter Francine had sent, no apology for failing to meet her that Sunday at the Tate. Still, Love was an advance on the previous two Regards.
What on earth would she do with herself today? She lay the postcard down and reached into her jewellery box, tilting her head to clip on an earring. She combed her hair and arranged the curls to mask the grey strands that had begun to appear at her temples. A colour rinse would solve that: she reminded herself to speak to her hairdresser. There. At least she would be presentable if anyone should call.
Downstairs, she drifted into the kitchen. How she hated these dark November mornings. There was a thin band of light to the east but it had a cruel edge to it, like the pale glint of marble in a cemetery.
Mrs Waite’s parting gift two days earlier had been a pork casserole, Best with mash. There was a full sack of King Edward’s in the garage, she’d added. The casserole remained untouched on the cool shelf; Francine had lifted the lid once, and the sight of the grey meat entombed in tomato-tinged fat had made her nauseous. Instead she had snacked on wrinkled apples and overripe Conference pears, thin slices of Cheddar layered on crackers. Well, she would be in London again at the weekend. Perhaps, once back with Charles, her appetite would improve.
Not that there would be a great deal of time for dining. So much to do! If Charles wasn’t too busy with appointments he might come flat-hunting with her and with luck, she would be able to move by the end of the month. Francine tried to feel excited. After all, she would not be sorry to leave Aldwick; it was especially soulless during the winter, apart from the tolerable fortnight of gaiety over Christmas.
Christmas. What on earth would she do this year? Charles would be with Carolyn at their Gloucestershire house. Harriett and Jeremy would be in Highgate with their children. Happy families gathered together – she couldn’t possibly impose. Paul with Adriana in Paris. She thought of Edward and immediately dismissed the idea; she would not be welcome. Her brother’s life was a mystery to her. She had tried, over the years, to maintain a friendship with him. When she telephoned he would answer with a breezy ‘Well, hello!’, delivered in high camp as if the caller might be some exotic thespian friend – Noël Coward himself, perhaps, ringing to suggest a weekend in Monte. And then she would say, ‘Darling, it’s Francine,’ and the response would be a flat ‘Oh.’ His voice became dull and ordinary, and she was always sorry, because she didn’t mind the camp, couldn’t care two pins how he chose to live his life or whom he took as a lover. Why should it matter at all, especially now that their parents were dead? There was no family reputation to protect, no one who might disapprove.
Christmas on her own in a cheap London flat. It would be somewhere dismal, she supposed, like Shepherd’s Bush or Hammersmith. East London was unthinkable and south . . . Unless she considered Barnes or Wi
mbledon, but really one might as well be living in the suburbs. If Paul could only get the tenants out of the Bloomsbury flat, but even when that happened he insisted the place must be sold. She’d have her share in the end, he promised, and she trusted his assurances. But right now everything was horribly uncertain.
She pictured the type of place she could afford: a cramped third-floor flat in a Georgian terrace, a shilling-in-the-slot meter and a communal hallway. Christmas Day alone with a plate of cold ham and a bottle of cheap wine chilled on a window ledge.
From the fruit bowl she took a small pear and placed it on the chopping board. Why should she spend Christmas Day alone? She had a daughter, for heaven’s sake, and she would find her and they would enjoy Christmas together. She sliced into the pear and cut it into quarters, licking the sweet juices from her fingers. Yes, she would write again, and this time her letter would be more conciliatory. Of course she’d have to back down over the baby, accept that Hazel would not take the obvious route, the sensible route, and that she was determined to shackle herself to a fatherless child and end her life before it had even begun. Somehow – she did not know how – Francine would have to swallow that and pretend in her letter to be happy for Hazel.
The next day she began to sort through the packing cases in the attic. Edward had wanted nothing to do with their dead parents’ belongings. Knick-knacks, he called them. They both knew that anything of real value was long gone – sold to pay off her father’s City debts. For three years Francine had tried to ignore the cases sitting up here in the box room, but now the job simply had to be done.
In one corner Francine made a pile of the few things she thought might interest the antiques dealer: a collection of paperweights; two crystal ashtrays and a bronze pétanque set. There was a hideous green vase that her mother had always loved – Chinese, probably – but it had been chipped years ago and the restorer had botched the repair.
The final chest contained books – a set of Shakespeare plays and various volumes of Victorian poetry. Francine decided she would keep these for the new flat: books always helped to warm a room. The chest was almost empty now. Delving between the screwed-up pages of newspaper, she pulled out a foolscap box, something she’d used to store sketches and letters when she was a girl. It had been hidden at the back of a drawer in her childhood bedroom; she must have left it behind when she went to Paris. Francine unwound the string fastener and opened the lid. There was a watercolour of the bridge at Lostwithiel and a pencil drawing of a cat. More sketches, some postcards, a programme for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. As she leafed through the programme a small blue envelope slid out.
She unfolded the two sheets of notepaper. It was not so much a letter as a short essay, dated August 6th 1910. Underneath the date was an underlined title: A Confession. Then: Ever since your visit last summer I have been in a kind of agony. Have you guessed?
Had she guessed? She had suspected – hoped – but she had not been sure.
When they’d arrived that summer Charles had been his usual unwelcoming self, slouching in the hall against the yellow-striped wallpaper, scowling at his baby brother Lawrie when he toddled in tooting his little wooden whistle.
That night she had been sitting at the dressing table staring at her reflection when she saw the blue envelope slide underneath her door. She smiled as she read it, and afterwards she lay on her bed, inhaling the scent of Mrs Lassiter’s roses which drifted in from the open window.
By morning she was breathless, too nervous, almost, to go down to breakfast. When she took her seat and Charles passed her the sugar caddy, her nerves stirred into a fury of excitement. As their parents discussed the news of the day – the latest on the Crippen case, the launch of the battleship Orion – Charles touched her thigh under the table. He let his hand rest for a moment, and she crossed her legs, trapping his fingers. Mrs Lassiter pronounced on Crippen’s lover. ‘She dressed as a boy, they say, but not a soul was fooled. Still, it’s hard to feel sorry for any of them. The murdered wife had taken up with a lodger . . .’
‘Most unsavoury,’ said Francine’s father, coughing into his teacup.
Lawrie dropped his bread and began to cry.
Charles smiled as Francine uncrossed her legs.
Would he be amused to see the letter, after so many years? No. It belonged to another time, a summer turned black, a tragedy they had tried so hard to forget. She refolded the paper and slipped it back inside the programme. Lostwithiel was not to be mentioned. Charles lived in the present, and she must strive always to do the same.
24
‘Darling, what a beautiful coat.’
Hazel turned and saw her mother. She seemed thinner; her shoulders were swamped by a black fur stole, and her hair had been coloured. The shade was redder than her natural auburn, and it looked peculiarly harsh in the winter sunlight, set off by a mink pillbox hat to which Francine had attached a small spotted feather. She was like a creature in the zoo, an exotic animal that had somehow fetched up in the shadow of Marble Arch.
‘Your hair,’ said Hazel. ‘It’s—’
‘Just a little tint.’ Francine patted the waves around her ear with a gloved hand. ‘Do you like it? Anyway, come here. How wonderful to see you at last. And in such a lovely ensemble.’
Hazel accepted her mother’s kiss but kept her fingers tight around the handle of the pram. ‘Lucia gave me the coat. She says green doesn’t suit her.’
‘It certainly suits you.’ Francine took a slight step back and her face became very serious. ‘How are you, darling?’
If she cried she would be furious with herself. She swallowed and looked away for a moment, focusing on a paper bag scudding along the gutter, and opening her eyes wide so that the cold wind could bite. ‘I’m very well. I’m enjoying being back in London.’
‘I’m sure. And Jasmin?’ Francine looked into the pram for the first time. The baby was fast asleep with her plump chin tucked into her neck. ‘Oh, that little bonnet!’ said Francine. ‘Adorable. My goodness, she’s grown.’
‘Eight months old now.’
‘And is she a good baby?’
An impossible question. Jasmin cried at night because she was teething. Did that mean she wasn’t good – that she was bad?
‘Of course. She’s absolutely perfect. Fast asleep as you can see – this cold air has knocked her out.’
‘Jolly good,’ said Francine, then added hurriedly: ‘But she’ll wake soon? I simply can’t wait for a cuddle. Aren’t you excited, her first Christmas coming up?’
Hazel thought how painful this must be for Francine, all this pretend cooing, the talk of cuddles and Christmas. She would see what it was her mother wanted and then get back to the flat.
‘Let’s walk into the park,’ Francine suggested. ‘Have you travelled far, darling? I still don’t know where you’re living. You have been a dark horse.’
Hazel relaxed her grip on the pram handle as they crossed into Hyde Park. Her mother seemed so harmless: diminished, somehow, with her garish hair and winter-pale cheeks.
‘It’s a garden flat in Kensington. Just off the High Street.’
‘The chances!’ said Francine. Her voice was shrill and an elderly woman walking ahead turned to look.
‘Chances of what?’ Hazel stopped, a ripple of alarm spreading through her body.
‘We’re almost neighbours. My new flat. It’s in Earls Court – the Kensington side. It must be only a short walk from you. Quelle coincidence. To think we came all the way to Marble Arch!’
Hazel couldn’t look at her mother. Instead she stared into the pram and saw that Jasmin’s eyes had flicked open. Francine’s shriek had probably woken her, and now her nose was screwing up and she was about to cry.
‘I didn’t know you were moving.’
‘Your father insists the Aldwick house must be rented. Holidaymakers, seaside breaks, you know? So I found a little flat, for the winter months at least. I picked up the keys just yesterday. There’s an awful lot o
f building work going on at the exhibition hall but I’m told that will finish soon.’ She nodded towards Jasmin. ‘Oh, the sweetheart. Has something upset her? Look at that, she has your colouring. Pale one minute, puce the next.’
They walked quickly towards a bench under a willow tree. Hazel lifted Jasmin from the pram and her cry quietened as she blinked into the sunlight, reaching a tiny hand towards the swaying canopy of thin branches.
‘Did you want to hold her?’
Francine sat down and tossed one end of the stole over her shoulder. ‘Of course,’ she said, patting her lap. ‘Pop her here.’
Wind rushed through the branches, and for a moment Hazel hesitated. She watched a dead leaf spin down from the willow. Francine had done everything she could to obliterate Jasmin from their lives. The appointment in Tavistock Square, the hideous Dr Cutler with her white coat and her weasel words, telling her it would be the work of a moment and no one would feel a thing . . . And later, when Hazel was with Jasmin at the Misses Shaw, Francine had made a point of ignoring her granddaughter. She would bring a green apple and a magazine for Hazel, and disappear after twenty minutes with the excuse of a headache, or a haberdashery order that needed urgent collection, or a train she simply couldn’t miss.
Jasmin’s breath was warm on her neck. Months had passed since that time – it was possible that her mother had had a genuine change of heart. What was the point in agreeing to the meeting if she wasn’t willing to give her a chance? Hazel bent down and put Jasmin on Francine’s lap. Jasmin squirmed, turning and reaching up towards the black stole. She grabbed a handful of fur and tugged.
‘She’s strong,’ said Francine. Jasmin smiled and babbled, ‘Mamama.’ ‘And she’s speaking already?’
‘Not really.’
‘But almost. You were a very early talker, darling. Duck, at seven months old. Nanny Felix was ever so impressed. You had a duck in the bath every night, you see, painted white with a yellow beak. A present from your uncle Edward. Probably the only present he ever sent . . .’ Francine lifted Jasmin upright so that their faces were level and Jasmin’s legs bounced down on her grandmother’s thighs. Jasmin smiled again, her bottom lip glossed with dribble. ‘Two teeth! I expect the nights are hellish?’
