by Ken Follett
She went to his old room. After they had married the two of them had lived here for three months while their own house was being redecorated. They had used Boy’s old bedroom and the one next door, although in those days they had slept together every night.
She went in and turned on the light. To her surprise she saw that Boy appeared not to have completely moved out. There was a razor on the wash stand and a copy of Flight magazine on the bedside table. She opened a drawer and found a tin of Leonard’s Liver-Aid, which he took every morning before breakfast. Did he sleep here when he was too disgustingly drunk to face his wife?
The lower drawer was locked, but she knew he kept the key in a pot on the mantelpiece. She had no qualms about prying: in her view a husband should have no secrets from his wife. She opened the drawer.
The first thing she found was a book of photographs of naked women. In artistic paintings and photographs, the women generally posed to half conceal their private parts, but these girls were doing the opposite: legs akimbo, buttocks held open, even the lips of their vaginas spread to show the inside. Daisy would pretend to be shocked if anyone caught her, but in truth she was fascinated. She looked through the entire book with great interest, comparing the women with herself: the size and shape of their breasts, the amount of hair, their sexual organs. What a wonderful variety there was in women’s bodies!
Some of the girls were stimulating themselves, or pretending to, and some were photographed in pairs, doing it to each other. Daisy was not really surprised that men liked this sort of thing.
She felt like an eavesdropper. It reminded her of the time she had gone to his room at Tŷ Gwyn, before they were married. Then she had been desperate to learn more about him, to gain intimate knowledge of the man she loved, to find a way to make him her own. What was she doing now? Spying on a husband who seemed no longer to love her, trying to understand where she had failed.
Beneath the book was a brown paper bag. Inside were several small, square paper envelopes, white with red lettering on the front. She read:
‘Prentif ’ Reg. Trade Mark
SERVISPAK
NOTICE
Do not leave the envelope
or contents in public places
as this is likely to cause offence
British made
Latex rubber
Withstands all climates
None of it made any sense. Nowhere did it say what the package actually contained. So she opened it.
Inside was a piece of rubber. She unfolded it. It was shaped like a tube, closed at one end. She took a few seconds to figure out what it was.
She had never seen one, but she had heard people talk about such things. Americans called it a Trojan, the British a rubber johnny. The correct term was condom, and it was to stop you getting pregnant.
Why did her husband have a bag of them? There could be only one answer. They were to be used with another woman.
She felt like crying. She had given him everything he wanted. She had never told him she was too tired to make love – even when she was – nor had she refused anything he suggested in bed. She would even have posed like the women in the book of photographs, if he had asked her to.
What had she done wrong?
She decided to ask him.
Sorrow turned to anger. She stood up. She would take the paper packets down to the dining room and confront him with them. Why should she protect his feelings?
At that moment he walked in.
‘I saw the light from the hall,’ he said. ‘What are you doing in here?’ He looked at the open drawers of the bedside cupboard and said: ‘How dare you spy on me?’
‘I suspected you of being unfaithful,’ she said. She held up the condom. ‘And I was right.’
‘Damn you for a sneak.’
‘Damn you for an adulterer.’
He raised his hand. ‘I should beat you like a Victorian husband.’
She snatched a heavy candlestick from the mantelpiece. ‘Try it, and I’ll bop you like a twentieth-century wife.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ He sat down heavily on a chair by the door, looking defeated.
His evident unhappiness deflated Daisy’s rage, and she just felt sad. She sat on the bed. But she had not lost her curiosity. ‘Who is she?’
He shook his head. ‘Never mind.’
‘I want to know!’
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Does it matter?’
‘It sure does.’ She knew she would get it out of him eventually.
He would not meet her eye. ‘Nobody you know, or would ever know.’
‘A prostitute?’
He was stung by this suggestion. ‘No!’
She goaded him further. ‘Do you pay her?’
‘No. Yes.’ He was clearly ashamed enough to wish to deny it. ‘Well, an allowance. It’s not the same thing.’
‘Why do you pay, if she’s not a prostitute?’
‘So they don’t have to see anyone else.’
‘They? You have several mistresses?’
‘No! Only two. They live in Aldgate. Mother and daughter.’
‘What? You can’t be serious.’
‘Well, one day Joanie was . . . the French say Elle avait les fleurs.’
‘American girls call it the curse.’
‘So Pearl offered to . . .’
‘Act as a substitute? This is the most sordid arrangement imaginable! So you go to bed with them both?’
‘Yes.’
She thought of the book of photographs, and an outrageous possibility occurred to her. She had to ask. ‘Not at the same time?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘How utterly foul.’
‘You don’t need to worry about disease.’ He pointed to the condom in her hand. ‘Those things prevent infection.’
‘I’m overwhelmed by your thoughtfulness.’
‘Look, most men do this sort of thing, you know. At least, most men of our class.’
‘No, they don’t,’ she said, but she thought of her father, who had a wife and a long-time mistress and still felt the need to romance Gladys Angelus.
Boy said: ‘My father isn’t a faithful husband. He has bastards all over the place.’
‘I don’t believe you. I think he loves your mother.’
‘He has one bastard for certain.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then you can’t be sure.’
‘I heard him say something to Bing Westhampton once. You know what Bing is like.’
‘I do,’ said Daisy. This seemed a moment for telling the truth, so she added: ‘He feels my bottom every chance he gets.’
‘Dirty old man. Anyway, we were all a bit drunk, and Bing said: “Most of us have got one or two bastards hidden away, haven’t we?” and Papa said: “I’m pretty sure I’ve only got one.” Then he seemed to realize what he’d said, and he coughed and looked foolish and changed the subject.’
‘Well, I don’t care how many bastards your father has, I’m a modern American girl and I won’t live with an unfaithful husband.’
‘What can you do about it?’
‘I’ll leave you.’ She put on a defiant expression, but she felt in pain, as if he had stabbed her.
‘And go back to Buffalo with your tail between your legs?’
‘Perhaps. Or I could do something else. I’ve got plenty of money.’ Her father’s lawyers had made sure Boy did not get his hands on the Vyalov-Peshkov fortune when they married. ‘I could go to California. Act in one of Father’s movies. Become a film star. I bet you I could.’ This was all pretence. She wanted to burst into tears.
‘Leave me, then,’ he said. ‘Go to hell, for all I care.’ She wondered if that was true. Looking at his face, she thought not.
They heard a car. Daisy pulled the blackout curtain aside an inch and saw Fitz’s black-and-cream Rolls-Royce outside, its headlights dimmed by slit masks. ‘Your father’s back,’ she said. ‘I wonder if we’re at
war.’
‘We’d better go down.’
‘I’ll follow you.’
Boy went out and Daisy looked in the mirror. She was surprised to see that she looked no different from the woman who had walked in here half an hour ago. Her life had been turned upside-down, but there was no sign of it on her face. She felt terribly sorry for herself, and wanted to cry, but she repressed the urge. Steeling herself, she went downstairs.
Fitz was in the dining room, with raindrops on the shoulders of his dinner jacket. Grout, the butler, had set out cheese and fruit, as Fitz had skipped dessert. The family sat around the table as Grout poured a glass of claret for Fitz. He drank some and said: ‘It was absolutely dreadful.’
Andy said: ‘What on earth happened?’
Fitz ate a corner of cheddar cheese before answering. ‘Neville spoke for four minutes. It was the worst performance by a prime minister that I have ever seen. He mumbled and prevaricated and said Germany might withdraw from Poland, which no one believes. He said nothing about war, or even an ultimatum.’
Andy said: ‘But why?’
‘Privately, Neville says he’s waiting for the French to stop dithering and declare war simultaneously with us. But a lot of people suspect that’s just a cowardly excuse.’
Fitz took another draught of wine. ‘Arthur Greenwood spoke next.’ Greenwood was deputy leader of the Labour Party. ‘As he stood up, Leo Amery – a Conservative Member of Parliament, mind you – shouted out: “Speak for England, Arthur!” To think that a damned socialist might speak for England where a Conservative Prime Minister has failed! Neville looked as sick as a dog.’
Grout refilled Fitz’s glass.
‘Greenwood was quite mild, but he did say: “I wonder how long we are prepared to vacillate?” and at that, MPs on both sides of the house roared their approval. I should think Neville wanted the earth to swallow him up.’ Fitz took a peach and sliced it with a knife and fork.
Andy said: ‘How were things left?’
‘Nothing is resolved! Neville has gone back to Number Ten Downing Street. But most of the Cabinet is holed up in Simon’s room at the Commons.’ Sir John Simon was Chancellor of the Exchequer. ‘They’re saying they won’t leave the room until Neville sends the Germans an ultimatum. Meanwhile, Labour’s National Executive Committee is in session, and discontented backbenchers are meeting in Winston’s flat.’
Daisy had always said she did not like politics, but since becoming part of Fitz’s family, and seeing everything from the inside, she had become interested, and she found this drama fascinating and scary. ‘Then the Prime Minister must act!’ she said.
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Fitz. ‘Before Parliament meets again – which should be at noon tomorrow – I think Neville must either declare war or resign.’
The phone rang in the hall and Grout went out to answer it. A minute later he came back and said: ‘That was the Foreign Office, my lord. The gentleman would not wait for you to come to the telephone, but insisted on giving a message.’ The old butler looked disconcerted, as if he had been spoken to rather sharply. ‘The Prime Minister has called an immediate meeting of the Cabinet.’
‘Movement!’ said Fitz. ‘Good.’
Grout went on: ‘The Foreign Secretary would like you to be in attendance, if convenient.’ Fitz was not in the Cabinet, but junior ministers were sometimes asked to attend meetings on their area of specialization, sitting at the side of the room rather than at the central table, so that they could answer questions of detail.
Bea looked at the clock. ‘It’s almost eleven. I suppose you must go.’
‘Indeed I must. The phrase “if convenient” is an empty courtesy.’ He patted his lips with a snowy napkin and limped out again.
Princess Bea said: ‘Make some more coffee, Grout, and bring it to the drawing room. We may be up late tonight.’
‘Yes, your Highness.’
They all returned to the drawing room, talking animatedly. Eva was in favour of war: she wanted to see the Nazi regime destroyed. She would worry about Jimmy, of course, but she had married a soldier and had always known he might have to risk his life in battle. Bea was pro-war, too, now that the Germans were allied with the Bolsheviks she hated. May feared that Andy would be killed, and could not stop crying. Boy did not see why two great nations such as England and Germany should go to war over a half-barbaric wasteland such as Poland.
As soon as she could, Daisy got Eva to go with her to another room where they could talk privately. ‘Boy’s got a mistress,’ she said immediately. She showed Eva the condoms. ‘I found these.’
‘Oh, Daisy, I’m so sorry,’ Eva said.
Daisy thought of giving Eva the grisly details – they normally told each other everything – but this time Daisy felt too humiliated, so she just said: ‘I confronted him, and he admitted it.’
‘Is he sorry?’
‘Not very. He says all men of his class do it, including his father.’
‘Jimmy doesn’t,’ Eva said decisively.
‘No, I’m sure you’re right.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m going to leave him. We can get divorced, then someone else can be the viscountess.’
‘But you can’t if there’s a war!’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too cruel, when he’s on the battlefield.’
‘He should have thought of that before he slept with a pair of prostitutes in Aldgate.’
‘But it would be cowardly, as well. You can’t dump a man who is risking his life to protect you.’
Reluctantly, Daisy saw Eva’s point. War would transform Boy from a despicable adulterer who deserved rejection into a hero defending his wife, his mother and his country from the terror of invasion and conquest. It was not just that everyone in London and Buffalo would see Daisy as a coward for leaving him; she would feel that way herself. If there was a war, she wanted to be brave, even though she was not sure what that might involve.
‘You’re right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I can’t leave him if there’s a war.’
There was a clap of thunder. Daisy looked at the clock: it was midnight. The rain altered in sound as a torrential downpour began.
Daisy and Eva returned to the drawing room. Bea was asleep on a couch. Andy had his arm around May, who was still snivelling. Boy was smoking a cigar and drinking brandy. Daisy decided that she would definitely be driving home.
Fitz came in at half past midnight, his evening suit soaking wet. ‘The dithering is over,’ he said. ‘Neville will send the Germans an ultimatum in the morning. If they do not begin to withdraw their troops from Poland by midday – eleven o’clock our time – we will be at war.’
They all got up and prepared to leave. In the hall, Daisy said: ‘I’ll drive,’ and Boy did not argue with her. They got into the cream Bentley and Daisy started the engine. Grout closed the door of Fitz’s house. Daisy turned on the windscreen wipers but did not pull away.
‘Boy,’ she said, ‘let’s try again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t really want to leave you.’
‘I certainly don’t want you to go.’
‘Give up those women in Aldgate. Sleep with me every night. Let’s really try for a baby. It’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then will you do as I ask?’
There was a long pause. Then he said: ‘All right.’
‘Thank you.’
She looked at him, hoping for a kiss, but he sat still, looking straight ahead through the windscreen, as the rhythmic wipers swept away the relentless rain.
(vi)
On Sunday the rain stopped and the sun came out. Lloyd Williams felt as if London had been washed clean.
During the course of the morning, the Williams family gathered in the kitchen of Ethel’s house in Aldgate. There was no prior arrangement: they turned up spontaneously. They wanted to be together, Lloyd guessed, if war was declared.
Lloyd longed for action against the Fascists, and at the same time dreaded the prospect of war. In Spain he had seen enough bloodshed and suffering for a lifetime. He wished never to take part in another battle. He had even given up boxing. Yet he hoped with all his heart that Chamberlain would not back down. He had seen for himself what Fascism meant in Germany, and the rumours coming out of Spain were equally nightmarish: the Franco regime was murdering former supporters of the elected government in their hundreds and thousands, and the priests were in control of the schools again.
This summer, after he had graduated, he had immediately joined the Welsh Rifles, and as a former member of the Officer Training Corps he had been given the rank of lieutenant. The army was energetically preparing for combat: it was only with the greatest difficulty that he had got a twenty-four hour pass to visit his mother this weekend. If the Prime Minister declared war today, Lloyd would be among the first to go.
Billy Williams came to the house in Nutley Street after breakfast on Sunday morning. Lloyd and Bernie were sitting by the radio, newspapers open on the kitchen table, while Ethel prepared a leg of pork for dinner. Uncle Billy almost wept when he saw Lloyd in uniform. ‘It makes me think of our Dave, that’s all,’ he said. ‘He’d be a conscript, now, if he’d come back from Spain.’
Lloyd had never told Billy the truth about how Dave had died. He pretended he did not know the details, just that Dave had been killed in action at Belchite and was presumably buried there. Billy had been in the Great War and knew how haphazardly bodies were dealt with on the battlefield, and that probably made his grief worse. His great hope was to visit Belchite one day, when Spain was freed at last, and to pay his respects to the son who died fighting in that great cause.
Lenny Griffiths was another who had never returned from Spain. No one had any idea where he might be buried. It was even possible he was still alive, in one of Franco’s prison camps.
Now the radio reported Prime Minister Chamberlain’s statement to the House of Commons last night, but nothing further.
