The Kissing Garden
Page 35
‘It’s all right, Amelia. Jack and I overpowered him easily.’
‘But he had a knife, George. He could have killed you.’
‘I think that was the general intention.’
‘George—’
‘It’s all right. I didn’t even get a scratch.’
‘He called you a Fascist.’ Amelia put the newspaper down.
George laughed. ‘He called me a lot worse than that.’
‘How can you laugh when someone tries to kill you?’
‘Darling,’ George sighed. ‘Probably because I’ve had the whole German army trying to kill me.’
‘Why did he call you a Fascist?’ Amelia persisted. ‘Why, George?’
‘Because the man’s bonkers, darling.’ George laughed again. ‘Stark and staringly so. Now how are you? Are you feeling any better?’
‘I was,’ she replied. ‘Now I’m not so sure. When are you coming home?’
‘Er – tomorrow,’ George replied after a brief hesitation. ‘Tomorrow or the day after. I have to go to a meeting tonight – some sort of political rally – and tomorrow I have to have lunch at the House of Commons. It all depends what happens at the lunch when exactly I’m coming home. But I’ll be in touch all the time. As long as you’re all right.’
‘I’m fine. Please hurry home.’
Before she had even put the telephone back in its cradle Amelia realized how much she missed George – her old George – and even her new one. Life seemed suddenly so utterly pointless and empty without him, and she realized that even despite her anger over the way he had deliberately distanced himself from her, she still loved him with all her heart.
The next day she read another report in the newspaper which caused her further anxiety. It seemed the political rally which had taken place the previous night was yet another organized by England’s very own self-styled Fascist leader, Oswald Mosley. Among those attending were Sir Marmaduke and Lady Astley, several other well known Society names, and the popular author and political commentator George Dashwood.
Breaking all the rules, as soon as George returned home Amelia demanded to know what he had been doing at such an affair. Far from being perturbed by the question George was unruffled, explaining that it was his job as a writer and commentator to find out exactly what was going on at these rallies and what was being said. Attendance, he argued, was not necessarily concomitant with agreement. These rallies and the growth of the Mosleyite party were an important political development which could not and should not be ignored.
‘That satisfy you, Twinkle-toes?’ George was standing at the end of Amelia’s bed. ‘Or do you think I’ve come back with a suitcase full of black shirts?’
Amelia was bested, as she knew George’s argument was perfectly plausible. Since he was writing increasingly for one of the major newspapers, it was obviously vital that he kept abreast of all the latest political developments, so whatever her private fears Amelia knew perfectly well that George had answered that particular question satisfactorily. What she found almost impossible to accept, however, was how over the next few months George’s name became more and more closely linked with Deanna Astley’s, as George absented himself more and more from The Priory to attend more and more functions and social engagements. Naturally Amelia was included in the invitations, but she very soon gave up accepting most of them once she discovered not only how unimportant she was to most of the people she met there but how much of a hindrance they considered her, as if she was the apparent wrongdoer rather than the notorious Mrs Astley.
‘It doesn’t look good me turning up without you,’ George would say, increasingly tired of the ongoing argument.
‘You’re the person they want to meet,’ Amelia would retort. ‘And I want to see my family, rather than a lot of right-wing stuffed shirts. So go on – off you go and have fun.’
‘I’m not going to some jolly schoolboy tea party, Amelia.’
‘I know you’re not. But since you don’t seem to think it worth your while to enlighten me as to what precisely you are up to, what am I meant to say?’
Time and time again George would hesitate, since what he wanted to do more than anything was stay at home with Amelia and his family and try to recapture their previous idyll. But fate and those who haunted their former paradise had unbeknown to him decreed otherwise. So time and time again he would find himself having to tear himself away from The Priory, knowing full well that by doing so he was estranging himself more and more from the person he loved. But he could not stop himself. It was as if unwittingly he had got on a merry-go-round and now found he could not get off. Even worse, deep inside he knew that he must not get off, not if he was to play his destined part in the darkening future.
Summer passed and autumn came, and with less to do in the garden and the children back at school Amelia found that for the first time in her marriage she was desperately lonely. Archie and Mae were away filming somewhere, Hermione was not only still up in Yorkshire but expecting her second child, and all her Somerset friends seemed to be either away in town most of the time, busy on their land or fully occupied bringing up their hunters. For a desperate moment Amelia even considered joining the hunt simply for the company it would afford her, only to remember Mae’s warning that it was so bad for the complexion, darling. So she resigned herself to facing an increasingly lonely winter with George destined to be away more than ever, following his political and literary businesses.
George was spending so much time in London that he finally yielded and rented a small service flat, but it was not somewhere that took even two people comfortably, and Peter and Gwendolyn had no interest in going to London other than at Christmas. As the October winds began to howl around the old priory Amelia built herself huge fires in the drawing room and immersed herself either in her reading or in her needlework. And so the months passed, but slowly, so slowly, each day seeming like a fortnight with Amelia quite alone, until a neighbour chose to call, or she drove herself to the village. Sometimes she would try to delay Jethro or Robbie from returning to their families at teatime, or, if the weather was exceptionally bad she would sit listening to the wireless, aware that she was lonely but incapable of doing anything about it.
What better moment than now, thought the Tall One, leaning nonchalantly against the old wall, when you feel unloved, and sadly ignored? What better moment than this? Rubbing his thumb against his finger he flinted stardust and blew it through the crack in the old window. It flew across the room and into the flame in the fire into which the Lonely Lady was staring.
When the doorbell rang it startled her, yet as she heard Clara going to answer it she had the strangest feeling that she knew exactly who was ringing. Now he stood at the door, with Clara behind him, peering around him and saying his name. Amelia was on her feet, putting down her book, brushing the dog hair off her skirt, excusing her appearance while he just smiled.
‘I was passing the gate, and better to ring the bell, I thought, than walk straight in and give you a fright. Better to have myself announced formally by my charming old friend M’moiselle Clara, who could tell me to run along should you be otherwise engaged.’
‘Ralph,’ Amelia heard her voice somewhere saying. ‘I can’t tell you how very good it is to see you.’
‘Wasn’t it George himself who told me to come and see yous,’ Ralph said, affecting a bad stage Irish. ‘Sure wasn’t I in this neck of the woods doing a spot of business, and since he knew that I was, didn’t he ask me to keep an eye on yous all?’
‘You’ve seen George?’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘Well of course!’ Amelia laughed. ‘What I meant was you’ve seen him recently?’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘Stop it, Ralph,’ Amelia said, laughing once more. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘I am I am,’ he said. ‘I am I am I am. And I would kill for a whisky.’
They sat in front of the fire. There was never any small talk it seemed with
Ralph Grace – it was straight in at the deep end.
‘George seems to spend an awful lot of his time in London. For such a home dog.’
‘Not so much a home dog nowadays, Ralph. More of a gun dog.’
‘A gun dog? Our George? I thought George had become a spaniel.’
‘Are you sneering, Ralph? Because if you are – don’t.’ Amelia glanced at him, then threw her half-smoked cigarette into the fire.
‘Of course I am not sneering. What I meant was – when you said he was a gun dog – I meant to say I thought he had changed his spots. You know – George No-More-War Dashwood.’
‘I don’t really know what he thinks any more, Ralph. He doesn’t include me the way he used to.’
Amelia stopped. It was out, and nothing to be done. She had betrayed George.
‘I’ll tell you what I admire about your mister,’ Ralph continued, as if she had not spoken. ‘What I admire most was the book he wrote straight after the war. He must have known the sort of furore it would create, but he stood his ground – in typical Dashwood style – and that took some doing.’
‘You know much more about us than I know about you. What have you been doing since?’ ‘Not what I intended to do, Mrs Rafferty.’ ‘That isn’t my name.’
‘I warned you about this thing I have about giving people names.’
‘Anyway, go on. About what you’ve been doing.’ ‘I meant to go back to finish my studies at university, which were somewhat interrupted by la guerre grande. I was studying modern languages – French and German.’
‘I knew you spoke French.’
Ralph looked at her, eyebrows raised. ‘George told you? Of course he would have told you.’
‘Not immediately. It took a bit of time.’
‘How much did he tell you, Mrs Rafferty?’
‘He told me about that poor girl. . .’
‘Ah yes, and Walker no doubt.’
‘It took for ever for him to be able to talk about it.’
Ralph nodded again, smoked some more of his cigarette and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, as if making a fresh start. ‘I didn’t go back to university because I thought I’d lost too much time because of the damned war. I went into the Diplomatic, and since then I’ve been all over the shop. The Orient, Russia, Germany – you name it. But I’m stationed in Paris at the moment. Or rather, more accurately, I was.’
‘I’ve never been to Paris,’ Amelia admitted. ‘We’re always meaning to go, but somehow after the war George wasn’t very anxious to return to France, which is quite understandable.’
‘Oh, you must go to Paris,’ Ralph insisted, and threw his finished smoke into the fire. ‘I shall take you and show you around.’
‘What a lovely idea,’ Amelia agreed, quickly. ‘We can all go together, George and I and you and – is there a Mrs Grace?’
For some reason Ralph found the question hilarious.
‘Why’s that so funny?’ Amelia wondered, finding herself laughing as well. ‘I don’t see why that’s so funny.’
‘Of course you do, Mrs Rafferty!’ Ralph hooted. ‘Is there a Mrs Grace? You sound like something out of a play! You know there is no Mrs Grace.’
‘I don’t see how. How do I know?’
‘Because you do.’ Ralph stopped laughing, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead with slender fingers while he stared at her suddenly.
‘So,’ Amelia said with a shrug, in an effort to lighten the atmosphere, ‘we shall all go to Paris, George, you and I – and you will show us around.’
‘If that’s what you want. But that isn’t what I want.’
‘I don’t think I’m going to ask you what you want, Mr Grace.’
‘I would prefer to show you around Paris by yourself.’
‘I don’t think you should say things like that. Do you?’
‘No. In fact I don’t even know what made me say it.’
Another silence fell, as Amelia suddenly wondered what she was to do with her unexpected guest. He had arrived by motor bicycle, apparently on his way to Bath, and she fell to wondering if she could tactfully suggest that he should be on his way quite soon. Instead she heard herself saying, ‘Have you had anything to eat, Monsieur Grace?’
‘Non! And to be honest – I am starving.’
Excusing herself, Amelia went out to the kitchen, stopping on the way to lean against the closed drawing room door and catch her breath.
‘What’s that you said?’ Clara asked as Amelia found herself standing in the kitchen looking at her housekeeper, who was sitting at the table reading a magazine. ‘What are you going to make so sure of, Mrs Dashwood?’
‘Was I talking out loud, Clara?’
‘I heard you say, “I must be quite, quite sure”.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Yes, you said, “I must be quite quite sure to tell Mr Rafferty” – is he the new plumber?’
Amelia laughed. ‘No, no, that’s just Lieutenant Grace’s nickname for myself and Captain Dashwood. But thank you – I must ring Captain Dashwood in London and tell him that Lieutenant Grace is here and wants to stay the night.’
As luck would have it George had returned to his hotel only five minutes earlier to change for dinner.
‘Ralph’s there?’ George said, with little apparent surprise. ‘Well, that’s Ralph all over, of course. A great one for doing things on the spur of the moment. Why didn’t he telephone?’
‘I’m not sure. He was passing the gate and thought he’d look in.’
‘Typical Ralph. Look, Amelia—’
‘Is it all right if I give him supper?’ Amelia asked, interrupting.
‘Why are you asking me that? You don’t have to ask me whether or not you can entertain my best friend.’ George laughed. ‘You can give him supper and put him up in the cottage.’
‘I don’t see why we should have to put him up. He’s got his motor bike – and anyway he’s on his way to stay in Bath, or somewhere.’
‘No, no, I won’t hear of it. Of course we must put him up. All being well I should be home tomorrow by midday or early afternoon. See you then. I can’t wait.’
‘I can’t wait either. George—’
Before he could reply there was a ring on the outer door of the flat.
‘George?’ Amelia said on the other end of the telephone line. ‘George – are you still there?’
‘I think it’s the porter come to leave some coal.’
‘Take care driving home.’
George replaced the receiver and went to the front door. As he had expected his visitor was not the porter, but Deanna Astley.
Returning to the drawing room Amelia found Ralph standing by the sofa table going through the photograph albums.
‘This is – as the Americans would say – one hell of a place, Mrs Rafferty, but obviously a complete ruin when you bought it.’
‘All but,’ Amelia agreed. ‘Someone had been living here, but an awfully long time ago.’
‘Round about the Dark Ages?’
Amelia laughed. ‘Round about then.’
‘I could have taken you out to dinner. I suddenly thought.’
‘What’s that got to do with what we were discussing?’
‘Nothing. I just suddenly thought I--’
‘—could have taken me out to dinner,’ Amelia interrupted. ‘You don’t have to worry. Dinner’s in hand.’
‘I should have thought of it earlier.’
‘It doesn’t matter, really. We can have dinner here, and George insists you stay the night, in the cottage.’
Amelia looked at him again, trying to decide what sort of man he was. At that moment she felt that had Archie and Mae been searching for someone to play Feste in Twelfth Night, Ralph Grace might have perfectly fitted the bill. He had about him a strangely doleful air, which made her feel suddenly protective, particularly as he went on to say, ‘There really is no need to put me up.’
‘You don’t want to stay?’
‘Don’t you think you’ve had a bit too much whisky for that kind of caper?’
‘Good God no. I’ve driven Bessie before with the best part of a bottle on board. I’m not going to leave because I don’t want to.’
‘Tell me,’ she said, wishing Clara would call them in to dinner. ‘What are you doing in the area? This isn’t exactly the sort of location where old friends just drop by. Or in. Were you already in the neighbourhood?’
‘Yes and no. More no than yes, really.’
‘I don’t have the beginning of an idea what you mean by that, Ralph.’
‘I mean I was in the neighbourhood but not already. I was passing through. Rather than staying.’
‘Passing through. Where from?’
‘From Paris.’
‘From Paris?’ Amelia echoed in amazement. ‘Aren’t you a little out of your way?’
‘Certainly,’ Ralph replied. ‘That’s the whole idea – when you’re on the run.’
‘Dinner,’ Clara said, having given a quick knock on the door. ‘Sorry it’s taken so long.’
Over dinner Amelia successfully avoided falling into what she thought might have been one of Ralph’s bear traps by asking him to explain his enigmatic statement about being on the run. Instead she drew him out about his travels and his experiences in the Diplomatic Corps. Inevitably the conversation came back to Paris.
‘The famously benevolent Sidney Smith said he thought that every wife had the right to insist on seeing Paris.’
‘I really must go, mustn’t I?’
‘We shall make a party of it. You, George, and me as your guide. You shall come too, M’moiselle Clara,’ he said to the housekeeper, who had just returned with the pudding. ‘It will do you all good to get out of the countryside for a while and enjoy some cosmopolitan life.’
Privately Amelia wondered how a man who had apparently just fled the city because of some incident from his past could possibly hope to return there so soon.
‘I remember George telling me you’re a bit of a pianist,’ Ralph said when they returned to the drawing room after dinner. ‘Did he also tell you that I was an excellent listener?’