Amelia started to laugh. ‘Oh dear, your face. No, you didn’t make a pass, as you call it. We just got a bit tight and I took you to the Kissing Garden and you were bored and went back to the cottage and fell fast asleep.’
‘Phew! I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘I know, I hate not remembering anything the morning after. It means you really must have made a fool of yourself, don’t you think? Oh, and you’ve spilt coffee in your saucer.’
While Amelia fetched him a fresh cup, Ralph pulled the copy of The Times towards him.
‘I have to confess something . . .’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Ever since I arrived here on this visit, it has been as if – as if I’d lost control of myself. In the truest sense of the word. As if – as if someone else was at the wheel.’
‘Perhaps someone else was.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You can never tell with these old houses,’ Amelia teased. ‘You never know what spirits lurk on in the bushes waiting to pounce.’
‘The only spirits you’ll find round this place are those consumed by that gardener of yours.’
‘Not a word against Jethro,’ Amelia warned him. ‘You can say anything you like about anyone but Jethro.’
‘Just a feeble joke, but then I’m in a feeble state, so it’s only to be expected, Mrs Rafferty. Good gracious, I see they’ve printed the letter after all.’ He fell to silence as he read George’s letter in The Times, and Amelia noticed an item in the Daily Mail.
It concerned George yet again, this time coupled with the name of his father, General Sir Michael Dashwood KG, MC, DSO. It would seem that in light of his son’s continued alliance with the appeasement faction and in view of the letter he understood to be carried in today’s Times, the distinguished old soldier had disassociated himself from his son.
‘Amelia?’ Ralph called as she dropped the newspaper and hurried from the room. ‘Amelia, have you read this letter?’
But Amelia was already in the telephone room.
‘General? It’s Amelia. I’ve just read the report in the Daily Mail. . .’
‘Amelia, my dear,’ her father-in-law answered. ‘I tried to telephone you last evening but your maid said you were out.’
‘Do you really mean this, general?’
‘Think the world of you, and the littles. My grandchildren. But there you are. George has gone a little too far now, my dear. We can’t have this sort of thing. First there was that book, which nearly killed his mother, and now this, siding with extremists. It won’t do. Sorry, my dear, but there you have it.’
‘General?’ Amelia called into the receiver, but it was no use. The old soldier had hung up.
A moment later, just as Amelia was about to leave the telephone room, the bell rang again.
‘That the Dashwood residence?’
‘Who is this, please?’
‘Having it painted – bright yellow – I shouldn’t wonder?’
‘Who is this, please?’
‘Your husband is a disgrace,’ the voice interrupted. ‘A filthy blot on the honour of this country. And you, missy – to live with a man who has tarnished the heroism of those who fell in the Great War so this country could be free--’
‘I’m putting the telephone down now. Goodbye.’
‘You are a—’
Amelia had the telephone back in its cradle before she learned the full truth of what she might or might not be. For a moment she stood trembling with anger by the small table. But her anger was not against the crank who had just telephoned, not against old General Dashwood, but against George.
How could he?
Twenty-Four
Later that morning, after dealing with the usual domestic problems that arise from running a large house and garden, Amelia went across to the cottage in search of Ralph, only to find the place deserted. Nor was there any trace of her guest, the bedclothes having been neatly folded back and the chest of drawers and wardrobe emptied of all Ralph’s belongings. But there was a note left in an envelope on the fireplace, addressed to Mrs Rafferty.
Dear Mrs Rafferty [it read], You have been so understanding that it breaks my heart to leave. You are without doubt unique and exceptional, and George is the luckiest man alive. So although I want you to forgive me for my emotional trespassing, I also don’t want you to. I’m glad you know how much I love you. What I am not so glad about is that I should have gone about declaring it. You are George’s wife and I am his best friend. How could I have done that? How I dared I shall never know. All I can say in mitigation is that I felt compelled to do so. If that sounds like a feeble excuse, so be it. But it’s true. There is something about this place which takes a person over. Perhaps it’s you? Perhaps you are such a magical person you charm us into this sort of wild romanticism. I have no intention of trying to explain further. Other than to say that here I was captivated and that captivation was you.
Ralph.
Amelia finished reading the letter, consigned it quickly to the fire, and then stared round the room. It was so strange. She had wanted him to go, but now he was gone she wanted him back. He had pushed the button that made her enjoy life again, he had made her laugh, they had danced and sung, but now it was as if Ralph had never been there. As if in some way he had, all along, been just a figment of her imagination. There was nothing left of him, no sign that anyone had even been in the room, other than the unmade bed and a hand towel dropped over the back of a chair. Out of habit she started to tidy the room even so, pushing open the window to air it, folding the towel, throwing dead flowers into the waste-paper basket – and then she saw it.
It was lying half hidden under the bed, where Ralph must have dropped it before falling asleep.
The ex-libris plate at the front announced that the book belonged not to the Dashwoods but to Ralph, just as the old, faded gold letters proclaimed it to be Avalon. By Richard de Grasse. The story of King Arthur and his round table, the story of the eternal three, Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot. The friendship torn apart by the love of a woman.
The inscription in the book was written in a handwriting very familiar to Amelia. It read, To Ralph Grace from his friend George Dashwood, who, like him, fought to keep the spirit of Avalon alive.
Settling herself in an old chair in the cottage sitting room, Amelia took the book onto her knee, pausing for a second before she began to read, almost as if she was afraid of what she was about to discover within its leather binding.
As soon as she turned back the semi-transparent sheet which protected the frontispiece and studied the beautiful engraving of a boat carrying the dying hero across a dark and magical lake she thought she might be going to understand the truth of their lives for the first time.
At first she did not read but leafed through the thick pages, looking at the illustrations and reading the captions below them. Underneath the first illustration of the boat carrying Arthur’s body across the dark waters was written, And here I shall heal me of my grievous wound and from which place one day I shall return.
Before she began to read the book properly she stared out of the window opposite her. Somewhere out there they had a lake, just like the one illustrated in the book. Who knew, she thought suddenly, what lay beneath its dark waters, and what was more, who might have returned there?
Twenty-Five
That weekend Amelia collected Peter from school for the start of his summer holidays. He was now a tall handsome boy of nearly sixteen years old.
‘Sorry it’s only me and no Papa,’ Amelia said as Peter piled his luggage into his mother’s little car. ‘He’s been called to London on business.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Peter said laconically, getting into the car. ‘Couldn’t matter less, actually.’
‘Oh, but you always like it when your father picks you up,’ Amelia replied. ‘I don’t know what you can mean.’
‘I mean – Mother – it doesn’t matter. Now can we please get going?’
&nbs
p; Amelia put the car into gear and started to head away from the school down the long poplar-lined driveway.
‘Papa said he was sorry to miss the Fathers’ Match, but--’
‘It couldn’t matter less, Mother? All right?’ Peter interrupted, draping one long arm over the car door and tossing his mane of blond hair out of his eyes. ‘It Could Not Matter Less.’
‘I don’t think that’s very nice, Peter,’ Amelia remarked, glancing at her son. ‘Your father wouldn’t miss the Fathers’ Match normally for all the tea in China. It’s just that—’
‘It couldn’t matter less,’ Peter repeated, turning round and matching her look. ‘Because if he had turned up they’d have probably thrown rotten eggs at him anyway.’
‘What a perfectly dreadful thing to say!’
‘And don’t you think you ought to look where we’re meant to be going?’ Peter said, grabbing the steering wheel and straightening out the car, which had been heading for the verge.
‘What a perfectly dreadful thing to say,’ Amelia repeated, smacking Peter on the back of his hand as she regained control. ‘Why should anyone want to throw rotten eggs at your father?’
‘Because he’s a lily-liver. That’s why.’
‘I beg your pardon, young man?’
‘I said, because he’s--’
‘I heard what you said, thank you. And if I were you I would unsay it pretty jolly quick.’
‘What’s the point?’ Peter sighed. ‘It’s true. It’s all over the newspapers – practically every day!’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter,’ Amelia retorted angrily. ‘You’re far too young to understand anyway.’
‘Really? So listen to this, then.’ Peter glanced at her, sighed a deep sigh of dissatisfaction and shook his head. ‘We had a mock debate this week. You know what a mock debate is, Mama?’
Amelia nodded. ‘Two sides are picked to debate an issue. And it doesn’t matter what you really believe, you have to debate what your side is pretending to stand for. So?’
‘Mr Harding, our head of history, organized it. It was all about appeasement. You know about appeasement, don’t you, Mother?’
‘There’s no need to patronize me, young man. I know a lot more than you think.’
‘Well, I was chosen to lead the debate for the anti-appeasement lobby, and Paul Holmes who is a perfect freak and I cannot abide for a moment – he was chosen to speak for the appeasers. The lily-livers as they’re called. As you probably know.’
‘I know. Go on,’ Amelia said.
‘He spoke as Father. Incredibly embarrassing, as you might imagine.’
‘Just tell me how the argument went,’ Amelia said curtly. ‘In brief. Go on.’
‘I maintained the government is being weak-kneed with Germany. That they’re bending backwards to appease Hitler which will allow him just to march into Austria and annexe it to the Reich. And as for the way we’re treating the Russians--’
Amelia raised her eyebrows.
‘You’ve become quite an expert on current affairs, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘I haven’t quite caught up about Russia yet.’
‘Russia’s a big country.’
‘That much I do know.’
‘Yes, but the point is, Mama, modern Russia – post-Revolution Russia – is obviously going to be quite a force to reckon with – and what I argued was, which is true, was that all the Russians want from us is for us to stand up to Germany. While all our government does is cold-shoulder them, which I considered to be asking for trouble.’
‘Sounds as if you have a point.’
‘Can’t we talk about something else?’
‘No. this concerns us all.’
‘So then I went on to say that if the government go on accommodating Hitler,’ Peter groaned, leaning back in his seat, ‘then Russia will sulk, Herr Hitler will ride roughshod over all the bits of Europe he wants, and there’ll be a war anyway – so far better to stand up to him now and see him down.’
‘Meaning fight a war.’
‘It won’t be a long one. Couple of weeks at the most.’
‘My generation has heard that said before, Peter, I wonder where or when?’
‘Look – what we must do is to stand up to the Nazis. Along with France, Belgium, Poland and most of all Russia. If we make it clear that we don’t allow them to put a foot out of their wretched country, that will be that.’
‘I don’t think it’s as easy as that.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re a lily-liver too, Mama?’ Peter said, with an appalled look at his mother. ‘We jolly well have to stand up to Hitler! There isn’t any other way!’
‘Let’s hear what the other side had to say, Peter,’ Amelia said, turning the car out onto the Castle Cary road.
‘They just had no argument, they made no fist of it.’
‘Come on – I’m interested.’
‘And they lost. How anyone can think that the way to get out of this mess is to suck up to Hitler beats me.’
‘You think your father’s one of those, do you? One of the suck up to Hitler brigade?’
‘Mama . . .’ Peter sighed in despair. ‘He writes about it every day in the papers! Look, it’s not that my burning ambition is to be a hero like my father. As my father once was.’
Amelia slapped Peter hard again on the back of his hand. ‘As your father is!’ she snapped. ‘And always shall be!’
‘I was just trying to explain how I feel! It isn’t about not wanting to fight, it really isn’t! No-one in their right mind wants to fight a war. But a war has to be a whole lot better than England becoming a Fascist state. Which is what will happen if the lily-livers win the day.’
‘They didn’t win your debate,’ Amelia reminded him.
‘Mr Harding says that rather than face another major war, a lot of people would be only too happy to let Hitler have the land he wants in the east, which apparently doesn’t amount to much.’
‘People live in the land in the east. People who don’t want to be crushed by the jackboot.’
‘Neither do I. But from the sound of it, Father wouldn’t mind that much.’
‘I don’t think that’s so,’ Amelia assured him. ‘I really don’t.’
‘I mean, what about his letter to The Times? It could have been from Mosley.’
‘Do you really believe someone like your father is like that?’
‘Does it matter what I believe? Everyone else thinks so! Everyone who thought he was a hero thinks he’s a traitor and a coward and should hand back his Victoria Cross.’
‘It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks, Peter,’ Amelia interrupted, bringing the car to a sudden halt at the side of the road and turning round to stare at him. ‘Do you really believe your father is capable of being a traitor and a coward?’
‘No,’ Peter said slowly. ‘No, of course I don’t.’
‘Fine,’ Amelia said with a nod, putting the car back into gear. ‘Then in that case let’s just go home and have tea and chocolate cake. Clara is waiting for us.’
Despite her spirited defence of George to his son, by the time Gwendolyn was home from school, because she had still received no word from George, even Amelia’s much-vaunted belief in her husband was beginning to wear thin. Gwendolyn fortunately was relatively unaffected by the scandal surrounding her father’s current political beliefs. The only real interest she seemed to show in anything was to do with exactly how many parties she and Peter could get themselves invited to in the coming holidays.
Peter too seemed to forget his private anguish and returned to being very nearly his old bright self. Amelia did her best to keep up the pretence that all was well and their father simply away in London on a prolonged business trip. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she rang the only man besides George whom she knew she could trust completely. She rang Ralph Grace.
She could have fainted with relief just hearing his voice.
‘If no-one else knows where George is, Mrs Raf
ferty, then why should I?’ Ralph wondered, sounding as humorous and relaxed as ever.
‘Why you? One – you’re in London; two – you know what George looks like; three – you must know some of his old friends; and four, again, because you’re in London.’
‘Those are four of the very worst reasons I have ever heard,’ Ralph returned with a laugh. ‘And because of that I shall leave no stone unturned. The thing is to find out where the main social action is, and get myself somehow into it.’
‘You really are my last hope, Ralph.’
‘I thought you’d stopped worrying about what George was up to?’ Ralph offered as a parting thought.
‘I have. It is just that not knowing anything is very hard.’
Two days later Ralph was able to telephone Amelia and tell her that George must certainly be alive and well since he had dined the night before with a very well placed socialite friend. A political ally of Lord Southgate, a well-known appeaser. Ralph had managed to post himself outside the Mayfair address where the party was being held in the hope of following George home, but after a long and fruitless vigil he gave up the attempt.
The arrival of her parents at The Priory helped take Amelia’s mind off her worries, although she found it difficult to keep up the pretence that all was well and George simply away on business. In deference to her feelings Clarence tried at first to steer their conversations away from politics, only giving in once he had downed a martini or two. It seemed that he could not believe that George of all people harboured the beliefs that he did. It staggered him. And he felt sorry for Peter. ‘Poor chap, having to go to school and hear what the other fathers have to say about his. It doesn’t bear thinking of.’
Constance, on the other hand, was far more interested in the gardens, which as always entirely captivated her, even at the most dead time of year.
‘Did I tell you, by the way?’ Amelia asked as they strolled round together, scarves knotted under their chins. ‘Did I tell you about all the flowers in one section of the border losing their colour entirely?’
The Kissing Garden Page 41
