At first Barty had no trouble with the other girls in her class; they liked her, and she had become more like them, her background converted into something very close to theirs, both by the years with the Lyttons and by her experiences during the war. She was good at games, too; her prowess in the gymnasium and on the netball court helped to make her popular. But then the teachers began to tell the twins that they should be more like her: should work hard, pay attention, do their homework, learn their tables.
‘Your sister sets you such a good example,’ said their form teacher one day, when they, had both done spectacularly badly in a spelling test, ‘why can’t you follow it?’
The twins looked at one another and something passed between them.
‘She’s not our sister,’ said Adele, ‘she just lives with us.’
‘She’s someone our mother brought home when she was little,’ said Venetia.
The word spread fast through the school: that Barty was some kind of foundling, rescued from the street by the bountiful Lady Celia Lytton, forced on her own children, who had to be nice to her, share their toys, give up a bedroom even. It was the sort of story little girls love: romantic with great scope for manipulation. Within days Barty had become an object of curiosity: of admiration to a few kinder girls, of derision to most of them.
‘Is it true,’ one of them said, ‘you slept in a box with three of your brothers?’
‘I slept with them when I was very small, yes,’ said Barty. She was not about to betray her family, ‘but in a bed, not a box.’
‘And you all lived in a cellar?’
‘Not exactly a cellar.’
‘Not exactly? What does that mean?’
‘Our rooms were at the bottom of the house. In – in the basement.’
‘Your rooms? How many did you have?’
‘Two,’ said Barty steadfastly. She opened her desk, pulled out some books. She knew what lay ahead of her now; the game was up.
It wasn’t as bad as before; she did have a few friends, was asked to a few other houses. But most of the time she was either ostracised or tormented. As before, she sought solace in work, in doing well. For the most part it didn’t help her; she was nicknamed Swot, ‘At least it’s better than Snipe,’ she said to Giles. When her name was read out, almost always at the top of the class, or as a prizewinner, the other girls would raise their eyebrows to the ceiling, make faces at one another, whisper behind her back. She pretended not to care: she cared dreadfully.
‘Oh – hallo,’ said Marjorie now, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘I came to see you,’ said Barty, ‘of course. It’s Saturday. And next week we’re all going down to Ashingham for Easter, so I’ll be seeing Billy. I thought you might have some messages for him.’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Marjorie, ‘he’s gone posh too, hasn’t he? What’s he want to hee – ar’ she stressed the h, elongated the rest of the word, ‘hee-ar from us for?’
‘Marjorie, that isn’t fair. Of course he wants to hear from you. Don’t be silly. Where’s Mum?’
‘Down the shop. With Mary. Trying to get some bread.’
‘Trying? Why is it difficult?’
‘Because, your ladyship, we ain’t got no money. So she has to get yesterday’s bread. Queue for it.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I’ll go and find her then. Thanks. Is Frank about?’
‘No. No he’s gone out. With his girlfriend.’
‘Oh. Oh, well, that’s nice. Do you like her?’
Marjorie shrugged. ‘She’s all right. Bit stuck up. You’d get on with her allright, I s’pose.’
Barty gave up and went to find her mother.
Sylvia was standing in the queue. Mary had disappeared, gone to play with another child. She looked exhausted and very thin. Every so often she coughed.
‘Mum! Hallo. Are you all right?’
‘Oh, hallo, Barty dear. You’ve grown again. What a lovely frock.’
‘Oh – thank you. Yes it’s new.’
She looked down at the frock; she supposed it was pretty. Navy blue wool, with a tucked bodice and a dropped waist, the hem just below her knees. Aunt Celia had taken her and the twins shopping a week or so earlier, ordered dozens of things for the spring and summer for them from Woollands, pressing them to say what they wanted, saying how lovely it was to have some choice again. Barty thought it was awful, just made life more difficult; she never thought about clothes, she had no interest in them. The twins, on the other hand, had spent hours in the various departments, picking out dresses, skirts, blouses, light coats, white socks, ankle-strap shoes, straw bonnets. It had been dreadfully boring. When she grew up, Barty thought, she would be like LM and wear the same clothes every day.
‘Wish I had some new frocks,’ said Sylvia, ‘all mine are worn right through.’
‘I could—’ Barty stopped—‘could ask Aunt Celia,’ she had been going to say. But she knew her mother wouldn’t like it. Wouldn’t take any more what she called charity.
‘It’s enough for me to know you’ve got plenty of everything,’ she was always saying, ‘nice clothes, good food. Something less to worry about.’
Barty supposed she was pleased about that; but she hated hearing it, really. It simply spelled out that she could never, ever return to her family and be an expensive extra worry to them all. That was the worst thing really: knowing that she didn’t belong to the Lyttons, and that the people to whom she did belong didn’t want her.
‘You all right, Mum?’ she said again.
‘Oh – yes. I suppose so. Life’s a bit difficult. But then, when wasn’t it? Nothing new in that.’
She sighed, then suddenly put out a hand on the wall of the shop to steady herself. Barty looked at her, alarmed.
‘Mum! You look awful.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Sylvia, ‘just a bit dizzy.’
‘Look, you go back to the house, I’ll wait here.’
‘Would you, dear? That’s kind. Two loaves if you can get them. Mind they’re yesterday’s, though. Here’s the money.’
Mr Phelps at the baker’s was one of the few people in Line Street who treated Barty as if she was perfectly ordinary, still belonged there. Most of them stared at her as if she were some scientific specimen to be studied.
‘Hallo Barty. My, you’ve grown again. Where’s your mum, then? Could have sworn she was in my queue.’
‘She went home. She didn’t feel very well.’
He sighed. ‘No, she’s not too good. Doesn’t eat properly and that’s a nasty cough she’s got. Not enough money, that’s her problem. Her and all the widows. Pensions are an insult. Shocking. Be surprised if she gets more ’n ten bob. I don’t know how she manages at all. Here, take a couple of these rolls as well. No I don’t want nothing for them. They’re stale, but they’re all right.’
Barty took them back to the house, made her mother some tea, spread some dripping on one of the rolls for her, and sat with her for a while. Later that night, lying between her freshly laundered sheets, in one of her lawn nightdresses, with her new frocks hanging in her cupboard, she worried about her mother buying stale bread because she couldn’t afford fresh, and coughing endlessly, even in her sleep, according to Marjorie. And she thought, too, that it was really no wonder her brothers and sisters all resented her so bitterly.
‘You seemed to enjoy that.’ Celia smiled at Oliver across the dining table.
‘Yes. I really did. I’m a little weary of fish, but that was particularly nice. The new cook is very good. Although I notice Jack is out more and more frequently. In search of good red meat, I daresay. I can’t say I’m sorry. It’s nice having the house to ourselves. Does it bother you, him living here?’
‘Not at all. I like it. Honestly. But he must be awfully bored.’
‘I’m sure he’ll find something to do soon. I must say I’m absolutely astonished he’s so determined to leave the army. It always seemed his natural habitat.’
‘I think he’s
just totally disillusioned with it,’ said Celia. ‘It was coming on during the war. He told me when he was home on leave that time.’
And was silent, remembering that night, when she had been so tempted, the first time, indeed, she had ever properly felt desire for any man other than Oliver. And now – well now, of course he was home, so she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t even consider it. She looked at Oliver and smiled quickly.
‘Anyway, how do you feel generally?’
‘Oh, pretty good. Yes. Thank you. In fact, you know, I was thinking today that I really would like to start reading some manuscripts. And even look at some publishing schedules. There. How’s that?’
‘Oliver, it’s wonderful.’ She was genuinely pleased, at the thought, not only that he must be feeling so much stronger, but also of having him even half way back with her at Lyttons.
‘Yes. So obviously I’m properly on the mend at last. I’d better start with Mr Brooke’s work, I suppose since it is clearly so important to our Christmas schedule.’
‘Oh – yes.’ She was still nervous about that: about the amount of time and money invested in it. ‘But there are other, more pressing works for you to give your attention to, Oliver. A new collection of detective stories, and—’
‘I’ll read those too. How’s that? No, I’ve definitely been getting bored. So it’s a very good sign. I’m sorry, my darling, you’ve had to wait so long for me. But I did feel dreadfully ill and weak.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. I’ve managed. Goodness, you earned a rest. And you did nearly die, after all.’
This had only really emerged during the months he had been home; he had lost an enormous amount of blood, and had actually developed septicaemia and been given the last rites by an over-zealous Catholic padre. It was something of a miracle he had survived. His stomach was permanently damaged, would never completely recover.
‘Yes,’ he said now, ‘yes, I did. And I often wished I had.’
‘I know,’ she said. She smiled at him, hoping disloyally that he wouldn’t start on the reminiscences which were so painful to hear, but obviously so important to his emotional recovery. At first she had felt proud that he would tell her, infinitely glad that at last he was talking. More recently, their constant repetition had made them harder to bear.
‘But just lately I’ve felt more – grateful. That I didn’t die, I mean. Grateful to be alive, even.’
She was surprised; this was the most positive thing he had said since he came home. Obviously something had shifted in him, had made him feel differently. ‘Oliver, that’s marvellous. I’m so glad.’
‘Yes.’ He smiled at her again. ‘So, before you know where you are, I may be back at Lyttons, being an absolute pest.’
‘Of course you won’t be a pest,’ she said. ‘It’ll be marvellous to have you back again. Helping me—’
‘Helping you! Darling, I hope I’ll be doing rather more than help you.’ His voice was quite suddenly stronger, and just tinged with a warning note. She remembered Sebastian’s words and smiled involuntarily.
‘Of course you will,’ she said, ‘Of course. But you know what I mean. It’s been a very lonely struggle.’
‘You had LM.’
‘I did have LM, Oliver, we had each other. I don’t know how either of us would have coped without the other. But our areas of expertise are so different, we both had to make decisions on our own. She about financial matters, I about editorial—’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ he said, She was losing him again; he looked exhausted. ‘I think I’ve done enough work for one evening.’ He managed a smile. ‘But it’s been a beginning. I look forward to a great deal more. Now I think I might go up to bed, If you don’t mind. Good night, my darling.’
‘Good night, Oliver.’
She went to the foot of the stairs with him, kissed him, watched him go slowly up.
They had slept in separate rooms ever since he came home; he was often awake and in pain during the night and liked to read. It was sensible, they had agreed, the only thing to do really. But he had not once suggested he might want to lie with her, hold her in his arms. Let alone make love to her.
CHAPTER 16
‘No decision from Segal, then?’ said Robert casually.
‘No,’ said John, equally casually. They smiled at one another: careful, slightly awkward smiles. They were waiting for a decision on a contract to build a department store for Jerome Segal on Sixth Avenue to rival Saks and Henry Bendel in size and splendour. All had been going well, and they had been given several nods and winks from Segal to suggest that the contract would be theirs, had indeed spent many hours with him, enduring a series of over-detailed briefings, knew exactly where the ladies’ lingerie would be sold, and the soft furnishings and even where the restrooms might be found, when a sudden silence had fallen.
The day when Jerome Segal had assured them contracts would be exchanged had passed, and a tactful telephone call was met first with, ‘Sorry Robert, just a hiccup from one of my directors,’ and then a certain evasiveness, a failure to return calls, a polite note asking for a week’s grace, ‘Just to get the last i’s dotted and t’s crossed.’
The week was up that day, and the day had already reached afternoon; neither Robert nor John would have admitted it, but they were nervous. They had invested a great deal of time and money in the project.
‘I think after this we’ll go back to purely speculative development,’ John said lightly, ‘simpler.’
When Robert’s secretary finally put through a call from Jerome Segal, it was not to give them the go ahead but to ask for a more detailed breakdown of costings:
‘Mr Segal,’ John said, struggling to keep exasperation out of his voice,
‘the breakdown could hardly be more detailed. If you remember, I even quoted for flower holders in the ladies’ powder room.’
There was a silence: then, ‘Yes, I realise that, John. But I’ve had some questions asked by our backers on the cost of the raw materials – the overall cost of the cement for example – perhaps you could break that down further for me.’
‘I don’t like this at all,’ John said to Robert, reaching for the Segal file, ‘not one bit. Nit-picking at this stage. I sense trouble. Even if we do get the contract.’
‘Well if we don’t, we can console ourselves with the thought,’ said Robert, ‘that we’ve escaped a difficult client. Now, let me have another look at those figures for the steel. Yes – it is a little high. We could probably pare that down.’
‘You’re so bloody optimistic, Robert,’ said John, ‘your mother should have called you Pollyanna.’
‘I don’t think it had been written then,’ said Robert. He grinned at John; it was true, optimism was one of his outstanding – and valuable – characteristics.
However, in this instance, it was unfounded; the contract to build Segal’s department store went to another company, by the name of Hagman Betts which no one had ever heard of.
‘New,’ said Robert, ‘hungry. Probably running at a loss. Don’t despair, John. It’s only one development, for God’s sake. Three more dead certs in the pipeline. Let’s go out for a drink, forget about it.’
However, one of the three dead certs also went to Hagman Betts, and a second to another young firm called Stern Rubin.
‘Don’t worry,’ Robert said to John, ‘they can’t keep this up. Can’t afford it. They’ll have to start charging more realistically soon. Then we’ll be all right. We’re hardly on the breadline now. Got enough to see us through a lean few months. Cheer up.’
But, as he drove home to Sutton Place, he didn’t feel particularly cheerful himself. In fact he felt – what? Uneasy best described it. Without being quite sure why: it was true what he had said, they had plenty of reserves to drawn on, plenty of other clients. He was probably just tired.
‘You look gloomy,’ said Maud, as he walked into the snug. She was drawing.
‘Oh, I’m all right. What are you drawing?’<
br />
‘A house. Look.’
He looked. ‘More of a skyscraper, I’d say.’
‘Maybe.’
‘We’ll have you running Brewer Lytton yet,’ said Robert.
‘I’d like that.’
‘So would I.’
He often fantasised about it; she loved nothing better than playing with her dolls’ houses, building with her bricks, and all her best drawings were of the Manhattan skyline.
‘Specially my daddy’s areas,’ she said solemnly to her teacher, when she had admired them.
She was seven now, still enchanting, astonishingly unspoilt; she went to a girls’ day school in Manhattan, where her favourite lesson, by far, was arithmetic. ‘Very suitable for an architect,’ her doting father would say. She was still small for her age, and very striking with her mass of red-gold die-straight hair, and her large green eyes.
She and her father were all the world to one another; they dined together each night, took it in turns to wake one another with a glass of orange juice in the morning, discussed their respective days solemnly over breakfast. Robert whose social life had never recovered from Jeanette’s death, led a quiet life; most evenings he was at home.
At the weekends they went to the house he had built in Montauk, Long Island, a dazzling white creation called Overview, right on the beach; the site carefully picked to be not too near Laurence’s mansion. He had written to Robert when he had heard he was looking for a property, suggesting that it might be more comfortable for them both if they were not close neighbours; Robert did not reply to the letter, but worried about its spirit, and the unpleasantness that might ensue for Maud. Just the same he loved Long Island and wanted for her the pleasures it could offer: the sailing, the riding, the walks along the shore. In the event, they very seldom met Laurence, and then only at an occasional luncheon party, where they exchanged distantly courteous greetings and moved on.
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