‘God knows. Well, old Baker will take over the salesroom, he’s perfectly sound. I shall probably have move it out of London of course, away from the bombs. And then there’s Henry and Roo. I was thinking that school of theirs, down near the Kent coast, is not the safest place. The front line, they’re calling Dover. I think perhaps we should move them. There’s a lot to talk about, you see.’
Venetia swallowed, fear seeping into her further, an awful, clammy, cold thing. ‘Yes, of course, do let’s have lunch. I’d love to. Oh, dear—’
Celia came in suddenly. ‘Venetia – oh, good lord. What on earth are you doing here, Boy?’
‘He’s come to take me out to lunch, Mummy,’ said Venetia, blowing her nose hard, ‘and to talk about – about enlisting.’
‘Enlisting!’ said Celia. ‘Oh Boy, not you as well surely?’
‘Yes, Celia, me as well. I’m a bit long in the tooth, I know, thirty-six this year, but – I want to do it.’
‘Oh God,’ said Celia. She sat down suddenly on the chair opposite Venetia’s desk. ‘This is dreadful. Everyone going. You. Kit. Giles. Jay—’
‘Jay?’
‘Yes. Into the Greenjackets. It’s where all the Wykhamists go, or so he tells me. It’s dreadful and for Lyttons as well, he’s an absolute godsend to the firm, such talent, we shall miss him so terribly—’
Only Boy, standing by Venetia’s desk, saw Giles in the corridor, waiting to speak to his mother; saw him, and saw that he had heard what she had said. About Jay’s talent and how much he would be missed. And with a genuine ache of sympathy in his heart, watched him hurry away.
‘I’m thinking of doing something useful,’ said Barty. She was sitting in the garden of Primrose Hill with Sebastian; it was a golden afternoon, and they were having tea. Izzic was sitting on her swing, reading; every so often she would look up and smile at them and then return to it, pushing the escaped curls of hair behind her ears. She was so like Pandora now it was almost painful, with her wide hazel eyes, her small straight nose, the masses of brown hair, worn in a long plait hanging down her back. She was small too, just as her mother had been, and her voice was beginning to develop the same deep tone. Sebastian no longer seemed to find the likeness painful, rather the reverse;
Barty, who had been away when the change had occurred, was warned she would find it surprising, but in fact she had found it almost disturbing.
Sebastian said nothing of it, indeed had never acknowledged it to anybody; the only clue coming in the dedication of the new Meridian, (entitled Half of the Time) ‘For Isabella’. He was still short with anyone who tried to discuss her with him, even such basic matters as her education, and his attitude to her was still extremely severe. He was more like a Victorian parent than one of the new modern school that Boy Warwick belonged to. He insisted on early bedtimes, few treats, and a strict adherence to homework and piano practice timetables; but Barty, observing for the first time the affection he clearly felt for Izzie, the careful attention he gave to what she said, the interest with which he observed her as she moved about the house and garden, was so touched, her eyes filled with tears.
‘And what,’ he said now to Barty, ‘do you mean by doing something useful?’
‘In the war, I mean. I don’t know that I want to stay at Lyttons, just keeping it going while all the men are away, I might want to join the Wrens, or something. Helena is joining the Red Cross and—’
‘God preserve us,’ said Sebastian, ‘I must remember not to get injured.’
‘Don’t be so horrid, Sebastian. Everyone’s horrid to Helena.’
‘She’s horrid to everyone. Miserable girl.’
‘That’s unfair. Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking.’
‘So life at Lyttons isn’t enough for you any more, is that it? Now that you’ve savoured life and literary success in the New World.’
She flushed. ‘It’s not exactly that. But – oh I don’t know, Sebastian. It’s difficult working at Lyttons, you know, Venetia is still a bit – odd with me and I can’t blame her. And so is Giles. And I don’t like seeing Boy either, and he’s always coming in—’
‘Well, you won’t have to worry about him much longer,’ said Sebastian, ‘he’s off to join the Grenadier Guards. As you must know. Bloody typical.’
‘Sebastian, that’s unfair too. He’s dying to get out there and fight for his country.’
‘You’re a real little Pollyanna, aren’t you, Barty? Thinking good of everyone. Highly irritating.’ He smiled at her, the old grin suddenly there again; there were times even now when he became again the beautiful, charming young man she remembered from her childhood.
‘I don’t mean to be. I don’t feel it half the time either. Anyway, I really do want to do something—’
‘Yes, yes, you just said. Useful. Far more useful if you ask me to stay and look after Lyttons. Good God, there’ll only be Oliver and Celia left soon; and LM and Venetia, I suppose. That’ll produce a war all of its own on Patermoster Row. We shall need you as appeaser, our own Neville Chamberlain.’
She sighed. ‘Well, it might not be enough. For me, I mean. Not at the moment.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘You’re not very happy, are you, Barty?’
‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m not.’
And much to her surprise and embarrassment, she burst into tears.
At first getting home had been enough; the sheer pleasure of being in London, of seeing Wol and Sebastian and Giles, LM and Jay, even Celia, of settling into her old room at Cheyne Walk while she found a flat of her own, or rather a tiny mews house in Chelsea, and then settling into it, it had all been a wonderful diversion.
But there had been immediate problems, most notably with Venetia.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ she had said briefly to Barty, her dark eyes hurt and hostile. ‘You knew, it was your friend having – mixed up with Boy, and you didn’t tell me. I don’t know how you could do that, Barty, I really don’t.’
She didn’t say very much: how could she, there seemed no defence. Only that she had not known until it was too late, and then there had seemed no point; she did not say that Sebastian had counselled her against it, that he had done what he could on her behalf, she did not like to involve him. Venetia, pacing the room, half angry, half tearful and smoking furiously, had said finally that she supposed it was over now, and that it was foolish for them to quarrel, that it was hardly Barty’s fault; but there was a shadow between them that would not lift. It might not have mattered so much once, but now that they met at Lyttons on a daily basis, it remained difficult.
She had been surprised to find her there, surprised and cynical; but she swiftly came to recognise that Venetia was actually extremely good at what she did, with her sharp mind and commercial sense. Had the situation been different, Barty would have rejoiced to have her there, cutting through the inevitable reactionary philosophy of people who had seen Lyttons’ finest hour two decades earlier.
The great joy of Barty’s professional life was Jay; in him she found a true ally. He was still only a junior editor, but she found him more imaginative, more innovative and with a greater grasp of the broad publishing picture than anyone else in the firm, with the exception of Celia; the three of them could often be found talking in Celia’s or Barty’s office long after everyone else had gone home, and that in itself caused problems, with decisions inevitably taken, ideas floated, series launched, if only notionally, all finally having to confront the rest of the firm.
But if Lyttons was not comfortable, it was her grief over Laurence that really troubled her. She still missed him savagely. It surprised her, that she should miss him; she had expected to be unhappy that the affair was over, that he had married someone else, and in so horribly hurtful a way, but she had not expected to feel the dreadful lack of him in her life, day after day. For a year, he had filled every moment, every corner of it, with his passionate, difficult, demanding self; she had scarcely felt or thought or done anything
without his involvement, even if that involvement meant only escaping his possessive attentions for long enough to do it.
He had aroused her, angered her, amused her, made her think, and made her feel; now there was a vacuum in her, and she could not ever imagine it filling again. The fact that he had been proved to be unstable, and dangerously so, deeply dishonest, horribly manipulative and totally egotistical seemed at times irrelevant; she quite literally longed to have him back in her life. While she had still been in New York, even though she had left him, he had still been a strong presence in her life, brooding, powerful, even frightening, but at least there; now, with Laurence removed from her by three thousand miles of ocean, she felt only a strong, almost violent loneliness.
She had half expected him to write, to continue to bombard her with details of his life, and his feelings, but he did not. Maud sent her a cutting (not realising how it would hurt) announcing the birth of his daughter and after that there was absolutely nothing. Finally, clearly, he had decided to let her go. And that hurt more than anything.
‘I thought I’d be better by now, it’s a year since I came home. I still think about him every day, Sebastian, I can’t believe it—’
‘My darling,’ said Sebastian, and his voice was very heavy suddenly, ‘it’s nine years since Pandora died, and I think about her every day. Contrary to popular opinion, I find that the passing of time and the dulling of grief have very little to do with one another.’
‘Oh God,’ she said, staring at him in horror, ‘oh God, Sebastian, I’m so sorry, how could I have said that, to you of all people? I—’
‘Quite easily,’ he said, patting her hand, ‘and I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to do so. It’s all right, nothing makes it worse any more. And I have learnt to live with it, learnt what to do with the pain. In that way at least, time does help, if not heals. But – yes, Isabella, thank you, put it down there. And then I think you should run along, Barty and I are still talking.’
‘No, don’t go,’ said Barty, reaching out her hand to Izzie, ‘it’s nice to have you here. Your father and I have said all there is to say. How’s school?’
‘A big concern,’ said Sebastian scowling, before Izzie could answer. ‘I had, of course, planned for Isabella to go to St Paul’s, it’s the best girls’ school in the country and I hadn’t considered boarding school. But with the war, I think she should be moved out of London, it’s going to be dangerous. So I’m looking at places like Cheltenham Ladies’—’
‘Father,’ said Izzie, and her small jaw was set in a way that Barty found so reminiscent of Pandora she almost laughed, ‘if it’s dangerous for me in London, then it’s dangerous for you, and I don’t want to leave you here. In fact I won’t.’
‘You will do what you’re told,’ said Sebastian; his voice was harsh suddenly and Barty looked at him anxiously, but his eyes on Izzie were soft and concerned. ‘I will not have you exposed to danger, and that is the end of the matter.’
‘Perhaps she could go to Lady Beckenham’s school,’ said Barty lightly.
‘What? She’s starting a school? Good God, what next? What will it teach, horsemanship and the best way to treat servants?’
‘That’s not fair,’ said Barty, who was eternally grateful to Lady Beckenham, after all that she had done for Billy. ‘She’s a marvellously wise person. But anyway, it’s not her own school really. The place Henry and Roo are at is going to move down there. She offered it, said she knew they looking for somewhere, and she wanted to do something for the war effort and couldn’t face a hospital again.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Izzie, ‘oh, Father, do you think I could, I’d so love to go to school with Henry and Roo—’
‘Of course you can’t,’ said Sebastian, ‘it’s an absurd notion, and besides it’s a boys’ school, they wouldn’t have you. Now, it’s time you were doing your piano practice, and you must do an extra five minutes, what’s more. I timed you yesterday and you stopped too soon. You thought I wouldn’t notice, didn’t you?’
‘No, Father,’ said Izzie with a weary sigh; but she smiled at him as she got up. ‘Goodbye, Barty, it was lovely to see you. I think it’s a very good idea for you to join the army or something. You’d be marvellous.’
‘I didn’t think she was even listening,’ said Barty, looking after her. ‘Certainly not taking it in.’
‘She takes everything in,’ said Sebastian, with a note of grudging pride in his voice.
Inside the house, the sound of scales flowing rather gracefully up and down the piano was interrupted by the telephone; after a few moments, Mrs Conley appeared on the terrace.
‘It’s Lady Celia, Mr Brooke. She wants to speak to you urgently.’
Sebastian looked at Barty and raised his eyebrows. ‘Proofs full of mistakes, I expect,’ he said, and disappeared into the house. After quite a long time – the proofs must have been very bad, Barty thought – he reappeared, walking heavily, his face carved with unhappiness. He sat down and stared at the garden, then took her hand, started playing with her fingers, ticking them off rather distractedly one by one. After a while, he sighed, and said, ‘Barty, don’t you go off for a while, there’s a good girl. We need you too much here.’ He was silent again, then fished in his pocket for his handkerchief, blew his nose hard; when he looked at her, his eyes were full of tears.
‘Kit’s just got his papers. He’s – he’s off in a week to do his flying training, up in Scotland. Oh, Barty, I’m terribly frightened for him.’
She was too distressed by his grief even to wonder why he should have felt more for Kit than for Giles or Jay.
CHAPTER 26
It was a dreadful noise, a man crying. Helena had never heard it before; she listened in horror, horror and dread. Horror because she knew what it must mean, dread because she knew she must confront it.
She waited for another moment, then handed the children over to their nanny, took a deep breath and walked into the study where Giles sat with his head buried in his arms on the desk, a brown envelope beside him, marked ‘The War Office’.
She put her arm round his shoulders, let him weep for a while; then finally she said, ‘Giles, what is it? Whatever it is, you must tell me.’
He sat up, blew his nose, stared at her, his eyes red-rimmed in his white face; he looked like a small boy, afraid of some kind of retribution.
‘I’ve failed my commission,’ he said finally, as she had been so afraid he would. ‘Failed again, Helena. My whole life is a bloody fucking failure.’
She looked at him steadily, ignoring the obscenity, aware only of the violence of emotion that must lie behind it.
‘Go on,’ she said gently.
‘There’s nothing more to say. I failed my WOSB. Not officer material. Not material for anything, Helena, am I? Lousy publisher, disappointment to my parents, useless provider, oh don’t look like that, I know what you think of me and how you’d like more money and why not, for God’s sake, what kind of a husband can’t give his wife her own clothes allowance, has to worry about finding enough money to run a decent household. And now, I’m not even deemed capable of leading my men into battle.’
‘But Giles—’
‘Don’t “But Giles” me. Whatever you say, you can’t alter the facts. There were a whole crowd of chaps there, lots of them with only half my advantages in life, all passed.’
‘You can’t have been the only one who failed,’ said Helena.
‘No, of course I wasn’t. I’m telling you that people who’d been to grammar school, for God’s sake, from very ordinary families, they were obviously going to pass, and I – product of Eton and then Oxford, having spent the last ten years or whatever training to run Lyttons, or so I am occasionally led to believe, I didn’t. I must be bloody useless, Helena, absolutely bloody useless.’
‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘All you said was that it was all right. Come on, Giles, I want to know what happened.’
‘Oh – it’s all so humiliating.’
He wiped his eyes again, sat back, lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. ‘There were three parts to it, a physical test, well I did all right on that, not frightfully fit, but I can still thrash young Kit on the squash court, anyway, I passed that. And then there was a sort of psychological bit, had a kind of – oh, I don’t know, an IQ test I suppose, had to do a presentation about myself in the mess, I think that was all right, I’m used to that after all.’
‘So—’
‘I’m pretty sure it was the leadership skills, the command task as they call it, that did for me, Helena. Not so surprising, is it? The most crucial qualities, after all, in an officer; and I just don’t have them. It seems.’
‘What – what did you have to do?’
‘Oh, they give you a test, you know, you have to get your men across a minefield. An imaginary one that is, three planks and an oil drum sort of stuff. The irony is I think I might have passed it, I had quite a good scheme, but then there was another chap and he was so bloody persuasive, I gave in to his ideas. Which weren’t as good as mine, they said at the time they lacked proper forethought, but I’d bet my life on him getting his commission.’
‘How – terribly unfair,’ said Helena. Thinking that that was precisely why Giles hadn’t got his commission, because he was too weak, too easily persuadable, too lacking in confidence.
‘Yes. Well, that’s life. Or my life anyway. Anyway, they’ve said they’re sorry, they can’t accept me as a commissioned officer, but if I’d like to come back and try again—’
‘Well – you could—’
‘No Helena, I bloody well couldn’t.’ He slammed his fist down on the desk, glaring at her. ‘I’m not subjecting myself to that again, to yet another failure. By that well-known, ongoing, outstanding failure Giles Lytton. God, it’s so humiliating. What on earth will my father say? There were quite a few references to him, by the older chaps, him and his Military Cross, what a marvellous soldier he’d been, how brave, how – oh, Jesus, it hurts. As for my mother—’ He stared at her, his eyes blank, almost fearful. ‘Meanwhile, there’s bloody Boy, straight into the Grenadier Guards as Captain, poncing round London on ceremonial duties; and young Jay, he’s got his in a few weeks, no chance he won’t pass.’
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