All my love,
Jago
My dear Kitty,
Just to let you know all is pretty fine here and I’m enjoying it no end. We’re well stuck in and have had a few chances to get at the Hun already. One particularly satisfactory skirmish. Arrogant lot, but we’ll bring them down. Worst thing is the weather – pretty awful, cold and wet. The heat of India at its worst seems like heaven in comparison. Shan’t forget that evening with you in a hurry. You were really marvellous. Only complaint, why aren’t you the star of that show? Tell the producer I said so. Home for Christmas I hope. Keep the home fires burning and all that.
Love,
Jack
My darling,
I am becoming a fine soldier very fast. I can march, salute, and shoot, all as well as the next man, and I am enjoying it to a surprising degree. There are a lot of fine chaps here, including, rather wonderfully, John Dukes from Blackies. So we spend what little free time we have talking books and illustrators and putting the publishing world entirely to rights. He is doing a new series of children’s picture books, which sounds very fine. I do feel we should try to develop a children’s list. Perhaps you could put your mind to it, see what LM thinks. Last night we went on a route march, across the flats at Mersea. It was most beautiful, the light shining on the water, and the sky very clear. I looked up at the stars and thought of you and of how much I love you. Take the greatest care of youself, my darling, and I shall see you in – what is it now? – two weeks and three days. I am sure the reunion will be very sweet. And we are still hopeful of not being sent to France before Christmas. My love also to the children. Tell Barty to write to me, letters are so precious. I have written a brief note to Giles. I do hope he is getting on all right, poor little chap.
Most of all, my dear one, my very best love to you. Not a moment passes, but I don’t think of you and how impossibly dear to me you are.
Oliver
Dearest Meg,
Just a brief note as I don’t have long. I am well and safe and things are not too bad. The food is lousy, and we’re a bit tired, otherwise nothing to complain about. The quarters aren’t too bad. Quarters! Barns mostly, in a muddy farm, outbuildings, tents in the woods. We march to the front, the trenches, six or seven miles away, finishing with a long walk across dreadfully muddy fields. Yours truly fell in a ditch full of water up to the waist. So much for my new boots! The last bit out to the trenches was tricky, an open field studded with shell pits and although it was night-time, there was a full moon. When we got there it wasn’t much better, some of the trenches were very shallow, and you have to lie down in the water and mud to get cover. I got down the deeper end, so was lucky. We were supposed to be there for two to three days, but the men in the shallow trenches could not stand it for more than two, and the CO said we should all go back, specially as many of our party weren’t well with diarrhoea. That I have escaped too. We are also erecting miles and miles of barbed wire against the Germans. It is a lot better than roofing in November, I can tell you.
I love you.
Jago.
PS We are hopeful of coming home for Christmas.
Dear Meg, Very very good news. Definitely home for Christmas. Be ready for me.
Love
Jago
If he was coming home, LM thought, clutching this letter literally to her heart, she must indeed be ready for him. It would be wonderful. She would get a tree, decorate the house, buy him such presents. And this time be happy and strong for him. If only she felt better herself. Perhaps now she knew he was coming home, she would begin to feel better. She’d never known ill-health before, not this dreadful constant sickness and lassitude and heartburn. And now her monthlies had stopped as well. She knew what it was of course; it was the change. She’d been half expecting it to happen for some time; she was, after all, forty. Her mother had had it early; but then she’d had cancer. LM stopped dead on her brisk walk down Haverstock Hill. Suppose that was it; suppose it wasn’t the change, suppose it was cancer. Then she shook herself. Of course it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. But she would see the doctor. Soon. Very soon. That very day if she could.
‘I’m pregnant. What do you think about that?’
‘Pregnant! Oh, Celia, I – I don’t know what to say.’
‘Nor do I, LM. I don’t know what to say to Oliver, either. He’ll only worry. Say I’ve got to rest and all that nonsense. And of course I can’t.’
‘Oh Celia. I’m – I’m sorry,’ said LM helplessly, hoping that was the right thing to say.
Although Celia was clearly anxious, she looked perfectly cheerful. But then she would; she met everything head on, nothing daunted her. She would cope with it, whatever happened. Her courage was immense. LM was brave too, very brave indeed about most things, but pregnancy frightened her. It was linked ineradicably in her mind with death: largely because of Jago, and the sad history of his Annie, but also because poor Jeanette had also died. And she had never forgotten finding Celia on her office floor that day, miscarrying, lying in a pool of blood. She thanked God almost daily she had never had to undergo it.
‘I’m sorry, LM,’ said Celia, ‘I shouldn’t have worried you. And what does it matter, really, with all these men dying every day. Oh I’m sorry, LM, I mean – oh God – don’t cry, don’t—’
‘It’s all right,’ said LM hauling herself into self-control with a great effort, managing to smile at Celia, ‘please don’t concern yourself about me. It hardly matters.’
‘LM, of course it does. Is – that is – have you – has he—’ her voice tailed away. ‘I’m sorry, LM I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘You have every right to ask,’ said LM, ‘you more than most. I should have told you, it was wrong of me not to. My friend, Mr Ford, whom of course you met.’
Celia nodded politely, as if she had met Jago at a literary luncheon party.
‘Mr Ford, is out in France.’
‘France—’
‘Yes. At the front.’
‘Oh LM, I’m so sorry. So very sorry. Is he – that is, what a stupid question, oh dear—’
‘He’s quite safe and well,’ said LM firmly, ‘and he writes regularly. But I have to admit I have found it quite worrying. But he’s perfectly safe and well. And, I hope, coming home for Christmas. I’ll keep you informed in future,’ she added,
‘LM, you don’t have to.’
‘I’d like to. You were so very – helpful that day. A good friend to us both.’
‘I’m just glad it was helpful. One never knows. And I did like him very much, LM, I thought he was extremely—’
‘But to return to you,’ said LM cutting into this smoothly. Giving Celia the facts about Jago’s war service was one thing; discussing him more personally was quite another. Celia flushed, recognising that she had said too much.
‘Sorry, LM. Yes, me and my pregnancy. Oh dear.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘I think I won’t tell Oliver. Not before he leaves. He’ll go off far more happily if he’s not worrying about me. Then, with luck, I can just get on with it after that. I might not even see him again until after—’ her voice crumpled slightly, then steadied, ‘after the baby’s born. That would be clever wouldn’t it?’
‘It would. When is it – that is when do you—?’
‘Expect it? Oh, let me see. July. Long way off. Nothing to show for it at Christmas, except perhaps a bit of sickness, which I’m sure I can explain away. Oh, dear LM, I do wish I wasn’t quite so fertile.’
‘It must be difficult,’ said LM politely. And thought yet again how fortunate she had been not to have that as one of her problems.
11th November
Dearest Meg,
The fighting is over for the time being, we’re told. No more big pushes for a while, so you can stop worrying about me. We are in what they call a rest camp, after what I can now tell you was some pretty bloody fighting. Some officers have been killed; they’re a good bunch I must say, the officers, brave and very good to us men
. I wouldn’t hear a word against them. I was a bit doubtful at first, to be honest, hearing how they came out in the first class trains and so on, while we were herded in like cattle, but you put your life in their hands and they do their best for you. Anyway, yours truly has come out of it without a scratch. I seem to be lucky. Sergeant major says there’s no such thing as a lucky soldier, just a good one. If that’s so, I’m bloody good. Christmas more or less assured. Don’t know how long we’ll be here, only that it’s a relief.
I love you Meg.
Jago
Dear Celia,
I’ll be home for Christmas. Hope you can offer me a place at your table. Or at least under your tree! I could do with a good old-fashioned family Christmas with your brood. I think about them a lot. Jolly fine they are. Tell Oliver it’s perfectly all right out here, good fun in fact, but he’ll need plenty of warm underwear.
Love
Jack
‘Hallo, Mum.’
‘Oh – Barty! I didn’t hear you. How are you, dear?’
‘Very well, thank you’ said Barty politely. Of all the things she hated, becoming a polite stranger to her mother was the worst. That and the boys teasing her. Calling her a posho. That was horrible.
‘You’re looking very well. Is Lady Celia with you?’
‘No. She drove me here, but she’s gone to the office for an hour or , so.’
‘Will she be coming in then, when she collects you? Oh, dear, I must get the place tidy, wash the floor.’
‘Mum! Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter about the floor.’
‘It does if Lady Celia’s coming.’
‘I think,’ said Barty, ‘she’s got more to worry about than your floor. Wol’s gone off to the war.’
‘Oh no! Oh dear, how dreadful, I am sorry. Is he at the front?’
‘No, training somewhere in England. She’ll tell you about it when she comes back I’m sure. Is – has Dad said anything about going?’
‘Oh no, dear. He feels he’s needed here more. Keep the home fires burning, that’s what he says. So many have gone, and he’s getting on a bit now, over thirty, they probably wouldn’t take him anyway, no need for everyone to rush off after all.’
‘No,’ said Barty, ‘no, of course not. Where is he? I’d like to see him.’
‘He’s out, dear. At the working men’s club. He spends a lot of time there now.’
‘What does he do there?’ asked Barty anxiously. She hoped it wasn’t somewhere you could get beer.
‘Oh, plays snooker. Cards. That sort of thing.’
‘Yes, I see. Did he – did he know I was coming?’
It hurt, that her father never seemed to want to see her.
‘Well, he wasn’t sure of course,’ said Sylvia carefully. ‘He’ll be sorry to have missed you though. Oh dear, I really want to clean the place up, Barty. Marjorie, come and help me. Barty’s here, look, and Lady Celia’s coming later, and I want the place clean.’
‘She can help you, can’t she?’ said Marjorie indicating her sister. She didn’t even say hallo to Barty; she was a large lumpen child, the image of her father, and of all the children she was the most overtly hostile to Barty. The boys might call her posho, go on about her voice and her clothes, but they were still intrinsically good-natured. Marjorie hated and resented Barty’s good fortune with a passion. More than once she had asked her mother if she and Barty could change places.
‘Why should it be her, why not me, if the idea was just to save space here and help you?’
Sylvia said as firmly as she could that Lady Celia had always favoured Barty, and wouldn’t want to change the arrangement now. ‘And besides she’s got Barty turned into a young lady now, she’d have to start again with you.’ This distinctly tactless explanation went no way towards reconciling Marjorie with the situation.
‘Yes, I’ll do it, of course. How are you, Marjorie?’
‘Oh, very well thank you, your ladyship,’ said Marjorie in mincing tones. ‘I’m so sorry, but I have a call to make. Do please excuse me, your ladyship.’
‘Marjorie,’ said Barty, ‘don’t be silly. I want to be your friend. You’re my sister.’
‘Yes, and who’d think that, looking at you with your fine clothes and your posh voice, who’d think I was your sister? Well I’m glad, I don’t want to be your sister, and I certainly don’t want to be your friend. I’m going out Mum, down the shop, meet Doreen.’
And she was gone, after making a face at Barty.
‘Oh dear,’ said Sylvia, ‘I have tried to make her see sense, Barty, but I can’t.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Barty, blinking back the tears. ‘So where are the boys?’
They were seldom there when she came home these days; they made themselves scarce, torn between embarrassment and hostility, and a guilty knowledge, in the older ones at least, that the huge gulf between them was not Barty’s fault.
‘Out playing. But Billy said he’d be back.’
‘Oh good. Did Frank like the book I brought for his birthday?’
‘He did, dear, very much. I explained it was one of Lady Celia’s own firm’s books, but he didn’t seem that interested. He’s good at school, Frank is. Might make the scholarship they said, only there’s no point. I couldn’t possibly get the uniform together if he passed.’
‘Mum, Aunt Celia would pay for the uniform. I know she would,’ said Barty earnestly, her large eyes anxious.
‘Oh, no. I couldn’t take any more from the Lyttons. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘It might help me,’ said Barty quietly.
‘Now, how could it help you? Pass me that bucket, dear.’
‘Make the others hate me less.’
‘They don’t hate you.’
‘I think they do. Let me ask her – Mum, is your arm all right? Doesn’t seem to work too well.’
‘Oh it’s all right,’ said Sylvia hastily. ‘Hurt it lifting the washing last week.’
‘Dad knocked her down the stairs.’ It was Billy; he had come in the front door.
‘Down the – Mum, that’s so bad. You can’t let him do that.’
‘Barty,’ said Billy, and the expression in his eyes was scornful as he looked at her, ‘living with those people has turned your brain. How do you think she’s going to stop him?’
‘Well I—’ Barty’s eyes filled with tears, partly because of Billy’s reaction to her, partly out of fear and anxiety at her mother’s plight. ‘I – don’t know. But I could tell Aunt Celia—’
Billy stepped forward, and gripped her arm in his hand. He was a big boy now, almost sixteen; it hurt. She winced.
‘You tell your precious Aunt Celia about our troubles, and I’ll break your arm. We don’t want her here, interfering in our lives. She’s done enough damage, taking you away.’
‘She hasn’t taken me away,’ said Barty staunchly. But she knew it wasn’t true. Celia had taken her away; and however much she might want it, she could never go back.
‘I know it’s the change,’ said LM, ‘I just wondered if there was anything you could give me to help.’
‘Ah.’ Dr Pitts looked at her carefully. ‘Any hot flushes, sweats at night?’
‘No,’ said LM, ‘but—’
‘Any – any flooding?’
‘No, I told you, the – the monthlies have stopped.’
‘Yes, I see. Er – Miss Lytton—’
‘Yes, Dr Pitts.’ She had known him most of her life, he had looked after her father.
‘Miss Lytton, forgive me, but I think – I can see this may come as a shock to you—’
He was looking very solemn, almost stern; it is cancer, thought LM, that’s what it is, I have cancer, I’m going to die, like my mother, before I see Jago again. She screwed up her courage, took a deep breath.
‘Yes?’ she said faintly. ‘Please tell me. Whatever it is. I would prefer to know.’
‘Yes, well you certainly have to know,’ said Dr Pitts. He almost smiled at her, then hesitated, as
if hoping he would still not have to proceed. Then he took a deep breath and said rather quickly, ‘Miss Lytton, there is absolutely no doubt, I would say, no doubt at all, that you are pregnant.’
CHAPTER 10
Why was it always at Christmas, Celia wondered fretfully, stabbing her fingers endlessly on pine needles as she tried to fix the candles on the tree on Christmas Eve, that life became so emotionally difficult for her? This one was proving particularly so. Oliver was home, but he had to leave on the evening of Boxing Day, and so the happiness was short-lived, the effort to appear cheerful and festive immense.
He had made a huge effort to be cheerful himself, but was obviously wretchedly anxious; ‘They’ve given us some idea of what we have to expect,’ he said to her, ‘doesn’t sound too good. To put it mildly. But—’ he smiled at her rather weakly – ‘but we have to make the most of it. At least I’m home.’
‘Yes,’ said Celia soberly, ‘at least you’re home. We’re very lucky.’ LM had come into her office three days earlier and said, her voice extraordinarily unsteady, that Mr Ford would not, after all, be coming home for Christmas.
‘Oh LM,’ Celia said, ‘I’m so terribly sorry, why not?’
‘It seems that there aren’t enough forces out there to defend the French front until further battalions arrive, and it has been decided, naturally, that married men must take priority with the allocation of leave,’ said LM, rather as if she were reciting something learned by heart.
‘Yes, I see,’ said Celia. ‘How very, very sad for you. But you must come to us for Christmas Day, you can’t spend it on your own.’I
LM had said she didn’t think she would come, that she would prefer to spend the day in Hampstead, and disappeared into her office for several hours. But two days before Christmas she asked Celia if it would inconvenience her greatly if she changed her mind.
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