The Granville Affaire

by Una-Mary Parker

  Gerald Knight, one of her earliest swains, was already at the table, in his naval uniform. He’d brought along a friend, who was also on his ship, called Hugh Armstrong. They rose as Juliet sashayed her way across the room, turning heads as she made her way around the tables, wearing her wild mink coat over a dusty rose pink woollen dress.

  ‘Juliet darling…!’ Gerald rose and enveloped her in his arms. ‘You’re looking terrific – as always, of course. Let me introduce…’

  Hugh Armstrong looked mesmerized as he gazed at Juliet as if he’d never seen anyone like her before.

  ‘How about a pink gin, darling?’ Gerald suggested, as Juliet slid into her seat. Hugh offered her a cigarette.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said lightly. ‘Is Henry Willis joining us?’

  She rather liked Henry. He flirted outrageously, promising to propose to her as soon as the war ended, so that he could get her into bed, now. Of course he didn’t mean it, and she hadn’t slept with him so far, nevertheless… may be one day she would; if she felt like it.

  ‘He’ll be along in a minute,’ Gerald assured her. Drinks were ordered, the menu studied.

  ‘I’ll have a carrot salad,’ said Juliet.

  ‘Sweetie, you’ll fade away,’ he teased. ‘End up all skin and bones.’

  She fluttered her mascaraed eyelashes. ‘But what skin! What bones,’ she said provocatively, her scarlet mouth tipping up at the corners into her wicked smile.

  At that moment, Henry Willis arrived, broad and blond and handsome in his naval uniform.

  ‘The fleet’s certainly in town!’ Juliet crowed flirtatiously. The three men laughed, all of them enamoured by this fascinating creature, whose attractions seemed miraculously to have increased since she’d experienced the horrors of war.

  They all raised their glasses to her and she laughed with pleasure. Then she stopped, as if a switch in her head had been turned off. She stared white-faced at the couple who had just entered the restaurant and knew, with a dreadful certainty, that the woman accompanying Daniel was his wife. Daniel was looking straight at her, taking in the scene of three naval officers waving glasses of pink gin about as they toasted her, and then he deliberately turned away, and asked the head waiter for a table on the other side of the restaurant.

  ‘I say, old girl, are you all right?’ Gerald asked, concerned. Juliet seemed to have wilted and shrunk in that moment and she drew on her cigarette, as if it were a lifeline.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said harshly and promptly called to the waiter to bring another round of drinks.

  ‘You look as if you’d seen a ghost,’ Hugh remarked, jokingly.

  Her mouth was tight, her jawline white and sharp. ‘Perhaps I did,’ she said, her voice low as she struggled to control her emotions.

  As if drawn by a magnet, her eyes kept going over to where Daniel and his wife sat. She was dark haired, with olive skin and a gentle expression, and she was gazing lovingly into Daniel’s face. She wasn’t smart. Her skirt and blouse outlined a plump and slightly sagging figure. Her hair was rolled into a loose knot at the base of her neck. The word ‘motherly’ came into Juliet’s mind, followed instantly by an agonizing thought; would she have looked motherly, if the baby hadn’t died?

  Juliet proceeded to drink and smoke her way through lunch, picking at her salad, laughing too loudly, and telling risqué jokes.

  Theirs was the noisiest and most uproarious table in the restaurant and several people turned to look at them. Including Daniel. Juliet happened to be looking his way and for a split second their eyes locked. It reminded her of her wedding reception when he’d had stood in Hyde Park, looking at the proceedings through the window. They’d held each other’s gaze then. But this time it was different. Instead of adoration, Daniel’s expression seemed to say whore. Harlot. Jezebel.

  * * *

  Juliet lay under Peter Osborne as his groans of pleasure filled her bedroom. It had been a long day and a long evening, but nothing had assuaged her pain. Not the hours of flirting with her admirers, not the amount of alcohol she’d consumed or the food she’d picked at, not the wild dancing to the Ambrose Band at the Embassy, before going on to smooch at the Orchid Room; none of it had made her feel any better.

  Her heart was broken afresh, and she couldn’t get over the way Daniel had looked at her in the restaurant.

  ‘God, you’re so beautiful…’ Peter murmured in her ear, as the noise of bombs screaming down around them exploded with earth-shattering thuds, making Park Lane rock and shudder.

  Julian knew they should be sheltering in the basement, but she no longer cared whether she lived or died. What was life, anyway, without Daniel? The ACK-ACK guns in Hyde Park had opened up with a roar of cannons, splitting the night air with their deafening cracks. The Luftwaffe droned menacingly overhead flying so low they barely seemed to skim the London chimney tops.

  Juliet wound her arms around Peter’s neck, moving with him, as the violent cacophony of noises seemed to merge together, clashing and screaming, tearing at Juliet’s nerves, growing stronger, louder, building inexorably until it reached an unbearable climax of explosions that caused her to cry out, a lonely voice in the darkness.

  A few minutes later, Peter rolled off, exhausted. It flashed through Juliet’s mind that making love during a blitz was like being right at the heart of Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812’ Overture. Drums, cymbals, percussion, explosives, artillery, reverberation, shudders… what was the difference? It was all deafening. Frightening. Exciting. Terrible.

  Juliet swung her legs to the ground and, naked, groped her way in the darkness across her room to the window. She pulled back the heavy silk curtains, which were lined with black-out material, and looked out.

  Buildings were on fire. Searchlights probed the sky with long silver fingers. The guns spat like fireworks in the grass. The hellish noise of bombardment went on.

  Juliet closed the curtains again and went back to bed, sickened with her life and everything around her.

  * * *

  Rosie found Freddie being pushed in a wheelchair around the grounds of Piltdown Court by a nurse. He was well wrapped up with a rug over his leg, but the young nurse looked frozen.

  ‘Shall I take over?’ Rosie asked, parking her bicycle.

  Freddie beamed with delight and the nurse looked grateful.

  ‘Could you really?’ she exclaimed, rubbing her purple hands together.

  ‘Of course.’ Rosie bent to kiss Freddie on the cheek. ‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a pretty copse, over there, on the right,’ he replied, pointing. ‘It’s out of the wind.’

  As Rosie pushed the chair with one hand, she rested her other on his shoulder and he immediately placed his hand over hers.

  ‘God, Rosie. It’s good to see you. I was hoping you’d come over today.’

  ‘Were you?’ She leaned forward, placing her cheek next to his. ‘I don’t think I can bear to stay away,’ she murmured.

  When they reached the secluded and sheltered copse, Freddie told her to stop by a fallen tree trunk, so she could sit on it, and he could talk to her, face to face.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, putting his arms around her and kissing her on the lips, tenderly and diffidently at first, but as she responded, holding on to him tightly, his kisses became more passionate.

  ‘I’ve missed you so much, Rosie,’ he breathed, gazing into her eyes.

  ‘I’ve missed you, too, but we shouldn’t, you know. I’m married to Charles,’ she said weakly. ‘But I do love you so terribly, Freddie.’

  ‘My darling girl.’ He was kissing her again, probingly, demandingly, one of his arms holding her tightly. With his other hand he grabbed her hand, held it for a moment, and then with a swift movement, guided her inside his trousers, which were unbuttoned.

  ‘Oh-h-h!’ Rosie gasped, pulling back, trying to extricate her hand, but he held it fast by the wrist. ‘Please, darling,’ he begged. ‘Oh God, please, darling, I love you more
than life itself. This isn’t wrong, sweetheart. You’re not being unfaithful to Charlie by doing this. I promise you.’ He moved her hand gently up and down, and closed his eyes in ecstasy. ‘I love you, I want you, Rosie. I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you. Wanting, wanting you… oh, Christ, darling…’

  For the first time in her whole life, Rosie was filled with gut-wrenching desire. She wanted him too. For a mad moment she thought of ripping off her clothes so that he could give himself to her, completely, utterly. She closed her own eyes, letting her hand give him the release he craved, wanting him to be happy, and satisfied. It was the least she could do for a man she loved so much.

  When she heard him draw a sobbing breath of pleasure, she instinctively arched her own back and a wondrous sensation grabbing at her insides made her cry out, too.

  ‘Rosie, Rosie,’ he whispered in delight, turning his head from side to side, ‘Oh, Rosie, you’re so wonderful.’

  ‘So are you,’ she murmured, her lips hovering above his. Then she kissed him deeply, taking the initiative, as she’d never wanted to do with Charles, as the sweet clutching sensation echoed once again through her body.

  ‘We’re made for each other, aren’t we?’ Freddie said, dreamily.

  ‘I think we are,’ she replied, feeling dazed. What was that sensation? Was it what Juliet had alluded to after her trip to Paris with that boyfriend of hers?

  It was growing dark when Rosie pushed Freddie through the portals of Piltdown Court.

  ‘When will you come to see me again?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I’ll soon have a false leg and we could go out.’ His eyes were filled with meaning; he was thinking of all the things they could do, if they were to book into a hotel.

  ‘Tomorrow, if I can,’ she said softly. Her face glowed. Her eyes were sparkling, but at the back of her mind was the thought of Charles; what on earth was she going to do about him?

  Rosie didn’t even remember cycling back to Hartley. Her mind was in a whirl, her emotions in turmoil. She felt sick with excitement and paralysed by dread. That night she skipped dinner, pleading a headache. But once in bed she lay awake all night, unable to sleep.

  Freddie had awakened her sexuality and taken possession of her mind and her heart and she was desperate for him.

  The next morning she drifted around the house in a daze, unable to concentrate. When Sophia nagged her to tell a story, and Jonathan cried because he couldn’t reach the toy he wanted, she snapped at them angrily for breaking into her lovely reverie.

  ‘What’s the matter with that girl?’ Liza grumbled to Lady Anne. ‘She forgot to bring in the logs, and she hasn’t even made her bed yet.’

  Her mother-in-law was thinking the same thing; and Louise also seemed a bit off-colour these days, as if she found it hard to concentrate, ‘I wonder if they’re getting enough to eat?’ Lady Anne suggested, her serene face over-shadowed with worry. ‘This rationing really is very meagre. The equivalent of two lamb chops a week isn’t enough for a growing girl, or a busy young mother. We’re going to have to grow more vegetables. And fruit. I’ll have to speak to Spence; we may have to sacrifice the lawn and turn it into another kitchen garden.’

  ‘We could get extra things on the black market,’ Liza said, lowering her voice.

  ‘Never!’ Lady Anne said firmly. ‘That would be totally unpatriotic. There’s no reason why we should get more than the rest of the country, just because we have the money to pay for it.’

  Liza looked mutinous but said nothing. Henry and his mother were so correct in everything they did. Why shouldn’t they cheat a little? Masses of people did. One of her London friends was even able to get clothing coupons on the black market. Liza longed to get some too; it was so boring not to be able to have a new wardrobe for the summer and another new collection for the winter. She didn’t dare, though. If Henry ever found out he’d be incandescent with anger. In fact he’d already told her to follow the example of everyone else and ‘Make Do and Mend’ as the popular slogan said, and pass on her coupons to Louise, Amanda and Charlotte, because they were growing so fast.

  ‘I hate this war,’ Liza burst out pettishly. ‘Henry won’t even allow me to go up to town any more, yet I’ve got lots of friends who are staying on, sheltering in the basement of the Dorchester every night and having a really good time. All the theatres are full every night, too. So are the restaurants. It simply isn’t fair to leave me stuck down here, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.’

  Lady Anne regarded her daughter-in-law with quiet, grim resignation, and for the umpteenth time she wondered why Henry had married this shallow little thing.

  Liza didn’t seem to care that thousands of civilians, both in London and in provincial cities around the country, had been killed, and thousands more were holed up every night in stinking shelters, or sleeping on the platforms of the London underground. Didn’t Liza realize, as she swanned around Hartley, that a quarter of a million people were now homeless?

  ‘Liza,’ Lady Anne said stiffly. ‘You should take stock of how lucky you really are. You have neither a husband nor a son in the armed forces. You have five healthy daughters and, pray God, they will all remain so. Count your blessings, for goodness sake, instead of behaving… behaving like a spoilt child,’ she added, her voice rising with cold fury.

  ‘I won’t be talked to like that,’ Liza retorted tearfully. Then she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  Jack was waiting for Louise by the smithy again, and when she saw him her heart gave a leap of joy. It had been a month since he’d first stood waiting for her, there. Since then they’d met two or three times a week.

  ‘Got you a Chrissy present,’ he mumbled, cheeks flushed, as he shoved a package, wrapped in old and rather crumpled brown paper, into her hand.

  Thrilled, but embarrassed because she hadn’t got him anything, she stammered her thanks, and mumbled, ‘Christmas is still two weeks away,’ as if to suggest she was going to give him a present nearer the time.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘It don’t matter. Y’know that book wot you lent me?’

  ‘Treasure Island?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘I ain’t finished it yet, but it’s OK.’ He fell into step beside her, as they walked slowly along the lane in the direction of Hartley.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.’

  It had been on their third meeting that Jack had scoffed at the number of books she was always carrying.

  ‘Some of them are school books, but I’ve lots of real books at home. Do you like reading?’

  ‘I’ll read anyfinck,’ he replied, his bright blue eyes earnest. ‘Even the labels on jam jars. Me auntie gives me tuppence a week to buy a comic, but she ain’t got no books in ’er ’ouse, so I don’t get much of a chance.’

  ‘I could lend you some of mine.’

  ‘I don’t want to read no romance,’ he retorted, looking faintly indignant.

  ‘I don’t read romantic books either,’ she said sturdily. ‘You’d like A Tale Of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. It’s really exciting. I think you’d like The Secret Garden. It’s absolutely my favourite book of all.’ He reminded her of Dickon, the nature-loving brother of one of the maids.

  ‘Can I have a read of it, then? When I’ve finished Treasure Island?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘Ta.’

  They reached the little bridge that crossed the stream, and, after standing around shuffling their feet for a few awkward moments, sat down on the wall, side by side.

  ‘Are you an only child?’ Louise asked.

  Jack nodded. ‘Me Ma died when I was three. She wos ’aving another babe, an’ they both died.’

  ‘Oh!’ Louise put her hand to her mouth in horror. ‘I’m so sorry. How dreadful for you.’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’ they say you never miss wot you never ’ad?’

  ‘So you were brought up by your father?’

 
‘Nah. ’e were banged up for GBH mos’ of the time.’

  Louise looked perplexed. ‘G-B-H?’ she repeated slowly.

  ‘Yup. Grievous Bodily ’arm. ’e beat up a night-watchman, when ’e was robbin’ a factory,’ Jack’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  ‘Really?’ Louise’s eyes widened with fascination. She’d never met anyone whose father had been in prison. It made Jack seem a more romantic figure than ever. A boy without a mother and a father ‘banged up’.

  ‘’E’s out now,’ Jack continued. ‘Lost an eye, during a fight in porridge, so e’s workin’ in a garridge. ’e sent me down ’ere when war broke out, though.’

  Louise nodded slowly, trying to take it in. ‘Porridge?’ she said doubtfully.

  Jack flashed her a warm smile, his full pink lips framing even white teeth. ‘Slang for prison. You don’ know much about real life, do you?’ he asked kindly.

  ‘Not much, I suppose,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Will you tell me more about it, one day?’

  His grin widened. ‘If you tells me wot it’s like up at the big ’ouse? Posh, ’aint you? Probably got servants, an’ all that?’

  ‘No,’ Louise swiftly. ‘Not now. They’ve left to do war work.’

  ‘’Oo does the cleanin’, then? An’ the cookin’?’

  ‘We all help,’ she replied with prim modesty. The light was fading swiftly. She jumped to her feet. ‘Goodness, I’d better go or they’ll be wondering where I am.’

  Jack rose too, unconscious of the natural grace of his long legs and slender body. ‘I’ll walk you to the gates. It ain’t safe for a young lady like you to be out in the dark.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said shyly. No one had called her a young lady before.

  ‘I know I don’t, but I wanna.’

  They walked side by side, up the steep lane on the other side of the bridge, and turned left at the top. A few yards further on were the imposing wrought iron gates of Hartley Hall.