Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘So – ’ Helena hesitated. ‘So what will you do? Have you been able to think yet?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, lighting another cigarette, sighing heavily. ‘Yes, I’ve been able to think. I’m going to go in through the ranks. I’ve decided. It’s the only thing I can do, as far as I can see. Short of not going in at all, which isn’t an option. What do you think about that, Helena? Married to a private, to one of the men, how does that make you feel? Pretty bloody proud, I daresay.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Helena quietly, taking his hand and kissing it, ‘yes, actually it does.’

  ‘You must be very – proud of him,’ said Celia. She brought the words out clearly with an effort.

  ‘I – I’m trying to be,’ said LM.

  ‘A commission in the Ox and Bucks,’ said Oliver, smiling at her gently, ‘jolly well done.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  ‘When does he go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was flat, devoid of expression; her eyes dull and heavy. ‘He’s doing his basic training now.’

  ‘LM,’ Celia went forwards, put her arm round her. ‘LM, I know how awful you must feel. But—’

  ‘No,’ said LM almost coldly, ‘no you don’t. Not quite. Of course you’re worried about Kit going into the air force. I appreciate that. But for me it’s like some dreadful déjà vu. A film replaying. He even used the same words as Jago you know, about joining up. “Just try and stop me,” he said. Extraordinary. And he says how he’s always been lucky. Jago used to say that. I – I just don’t think I can bear it, I’m afraid. I want to die myself.’

  ‘LM! You can’t talk like that. What would Gordon feel, if he heard you? Or Jay himself for that matter. We have to be brave for them, that’s the one thing we can do.’

  ‘I – can’t be,’ said LM, her voice low and shaky, ‘I simply can’t. I don’t know what to do, Celia, I feel like screaming, begging him not to go.’

  ‘LM, you were brave before. Terribly brave,’ said Celia, remembering LM’s steely courage as she endured the news of Jago’s death, her long, lonely pregnancy, her fierce stoicism in facing Jay’s adoption.

  ‘I – may have been.’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘But – I can’t do that again. I can’t find the courage again. I’m not naturally brave like you, Celia, or not any more, I’m finding this literally sickening—’

  ‘It must be a family trait,’ said Oliver cheerfully. LM stared at him.

  ‘But Oliver—’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. The Military Cross and all that. My liver is as lily-coloured as it could be. Celia would have been too loyal to tell you, but I felt the most primitive dreadful fear, every day in those trenches. Once – well, we need not go into details. But I lack Celia’s lioness-like qualities. I’m just rather good at hiding it. Which you are too, I have to say, I have seen no demonstration of any fear from you, ever.’

  ‘But Oliver I’m tired,’ said LM, ‘tired and growing old. One has to dig deeper and deeper to find any strength, and I simply can’t do that. It just seems like so much stupidity, the waste of yet another young life. I love him so much, so very, very much. And all I can imagine is getting the telegram, standing there as I did last time, opening it, reading it, reading that Jay is – is – oh God, help me.’ She dropped her head into her hands, began to weep; Celia put her arms round her, stood looking down at her helplessly, biting her lip.

  ‘LM, the best, indeed the only, thing we can do for the young is set an example,’ said Oliver slowly. ‘I discovered that long ago. They don’t listen to us, they find most of what we have to say at best tedious and at worst inane. We can influence them simply by what we do and how we do it. Now think about that. You can’t send young Jay off to fight with an image of you crying helplessly, begging him not to go. He needs fine pictures, happy memories to carry with him, they are of immeasurable value. I should know.’ He smiled suddenly at Celia; the old sweet smile. She smiled back, her face softening as she looked at him.

  LM sat in silence for a long time; her head bowed. Then she stood up. ‘Well I – I still don’t know how—’

  There was a commotion along the corridor, shrieks and shouts of laughter; Venetia suddenly appeared in the doorway, her arm through Jay’s. He was in uniform.

  ‘Look what I just met in reception. Too thrilling. Home for forty-eight hours already. Our very own Lieutenant Lytton. Not even second lieutenant, isn’t that marvellous. So dashing, don’t you think? My God, Jay, if we weren’t related I could fancy you quite dreadfully. Well, I do fancy you quite dreadfully. LM, doesn’t your son look marvellous, aren’t you proud?’

  LM looked at Jay for a long moment in silence; he looked older already, even taller, in his uniform, his face somehow thinner under his cropped hair. Then she smiled at him, the brilliant, rare smile that so transformed her plain face, and went over to him and hugged him.

  ‘You do look marvellous, Jay. And I am terribly proud of you. How would you like to take your old mother out to tea at the Savoy, tell her all about military life?’

  He bent to kiss her, took her hand and tucked it through his arm.

  ‘Excuse us,’ he said to the others, ‘we’ve got a date.’ And together they walked out of the room, LM smiling at him, fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. If anyone deserved the Military Cross, Celia thought, looking at them through rather blurred eyes, it was LM.

  ‘Well done,’ she said apparently inconsequentially to Oliver.

  Telling his parents that he had failed to get a commission was one of the hardest things Giles had ever done. They had been so confident about it, especially his mother; now he was going to have to tell them that he was going to enlist as Private Giles Lytton, the son of Colonel Oliver Lytton, MC, grandson of Brigadier Lord Beckenham, DSO and great grandson of Field Marshall Lord Beckenham VC DSO.

  He did it in the only way possible, simply and without fuss, making no apologies, offering no excuses, his eyes fixed firmly on his father’s desk. But when he had finished, had said that in spite of it he felt he could still serve his country in as valuable a way as a private soldier, and looked up at them, he saw that his father was smiling at him, if rather sadly, and he reached out and patted Giles’s hand, and instead of the contempt and disapproval he had expected to see in his mother’s eyes, there was a certain softness and even pride.

  ‘I think that’s rather splendid of you, Giles,’ she said, ‘and in its own way extremely brave. Well done.’

  She was nothing, Giles thought, smiling rather warily back at her, if not unpredictable.

  It was terribly cold in Paris; it was cold everywhere, the coldest winter anyone could remember. The Channel had even frozen at Boulogne. There was ice inside the windows every morning in the apartment; Adele, struggling to keep the stove alight, fighting with the evil geyser, draping nappies over chairs, the window handles, anywhere they might dry, thought more longingly every moment of England, of Cheyne Walk, of warmth and comfort and – good temper. Luc was fearsomely bad-tempered; Adele was reminded every day of his warning that the cold made him miserable. She tried not to think of the warmth of his office at Constantine.

  The children were miserable in the cold; little Noni had chilblains on her tiny fingers, and the daily trip out to the market had become a torment. Without Lady Beckenham’s pram, it would have been far worse; but she tucked them both up in it, one at each end, and put the quilts from their cots over them, as well as an old mink coat of her own. She looked at it now, that coat, tucked in beneath them, and thought of it as it had been, wrapped round her spoilt self as she went on those other shopping expeditions, to Bond Street, to Harvey Nichols, to Harrods, seeking out some new dress or hat or pair of shoes, filling in her mornings until it was time for lunch, when she would leave it in the cloakroom at the Caprice or the Park Lane or Claridges, while she sat gossiping, toying with food she had not cooked or bought or even thought about, and then she would collect it, pull it round her again,
hailing a taxi (in which she really did not need it) and returning to Cheyne Walk with it, where her maid would hang it next to the other two, the silver fox and the chinchilla, in her wardrobe. She could have done with those two now, to wear herself; she had a wool coat, which was quite warm, but there really was nothing like fur.

  Everybody was far more obsessed with the cold than with the war and any possible danger from the Germans; people still for the most part persisted in saying there was no danger. There was the Maginot Line (work on which had been suspended because of the cold) and where that stopped, there was the Ardennes, a forest so thick it was virtually impenetrable, with one tiny road running through it. And beyond that, even supposing the Germans managed to get through it, was the vast, uncrossable River Meuse. No, they were quite safe. Everyone said.

  Luc became hugely irritated with her when she tried to discuss any danger, when she mooted, however gently, that she and the children might be safer in England.

  ‘You are safe here, Paris will never be invaded. And how will you get to England, Hitler will be bombing or torpedoeing the ships.’

  Adele found this rather at odds with his insistence that they were in little danger and said so: ‘And anyway, no one’s bombing anyone, Luc, everyone says it’s a terrible anticlimax, the phony war, they’re calling it in England, same as the drôle de guerre here, everyone rushing into air-raid shelters and gas masks, and then nothing happening.’

  But Luc refused even to concede that she might be safer in England; ‘This is your home, you have French children a French husband—’

  ‘Not a husband, Luc. Sadly.’

  A bitter row followed; ending in tears on her part, a mixture of self-reproach and remorse on his, and some rather distracted love-making: distracted on Adele’s part at any rate, perpetually fearful as she was of another pregnancy and of one or both the children waking. But afterwards, lying in Luc’s arms, warm for once, she thought that really she had a great deal to be grateful for. He did seem to love her and for some complicated reasons which she did not properly understand, she certainly loved him. And he must be right about the Germans; they would never, surely, break into France and certainly never ever, reach Paris.

  ‘So – are you enjoying military life?’ said Venetia lightly, taking the cigarette Boy offered her, inhaling deeply. They were lunching at what was to become the bastion of London war-time life, the Dorchester, known to all its regulars as the Dorch: outwardly changed, the entrance covered by sandbags, the curtains lined with thick black cloth, the interior remained much the same. It was said to be the safest hotel in London, built as it had been of reinforced concrete; and the Turkish baths in the basement potentially a superb air-raid shelter.

  Boy and Venetia’s lunches there had actually become a regular occurrence, the excuse being that there was always so much to discuss: the reality that it afforded them both some rather perverse pleasure.

  Of course, Venetia told herself, she was glad she had insisted on the divorce: and besides, this way she and Boy had somehow become better friends than they had been for some time. And he was clearly impressed by her job: not only that she was doing it but doing it extremely well. It was very gratifying to have him arrive at Lytton House and keep him waiting while some meeting was concluded, or to tell him she had to break off lunch at half past two because of a meeting with Hatchards or with the book buyer at Selfridges, it soothed her hurt pride, eased her humiliation. And of course it was very nice to be friends with him again; however bad their marriage might have been, she had missed the fun he injected into their lives, his capacity for gossip, and his ability to make her laugh.

  ‘I might be enjoying military life, if I was experiencing it,’ said Boy slightly wearily now. ‘I hadn’t exactly expected to find myself changing the guard at Buckingham Palace—’

  ‘As the song says.’

  ‘Indeed. I can’t see I’m doing a great deal for the war effort.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be much effort required. I think it’s all quite amusing in its own way, all that preparation and – nothing. No air raids, no bombs, all those trenches dug in the parks, all of us with our gas masks, and this ridiculous blackout, five more people run over last week, did you see – it’s all quite a disappointment really.’

  ‘I think when it does begin, you’ll feel the opposite of disappointment,’ said Boy. He smiled at her, but his eyes were heavy.

  ‘You think it will, do you? Apparently the bookies are taking bets on it being over by Christmas, and the odds are awfully much in favour—’

  ‘People always say wars will be over by Christmas. Of course it won’t. Hitler is hardly going to lose interest in his scheme, say come on everyone, settle down again, we’ve had our fun. I very much fear we shall hear a great deal of him yet.’

  ‘Well – I suppose you must be right. But it is awfully quiet. Even the evacuees have come back to London. At this rate, Henry’s school won’t need to move.’

  ‘It will. What’s the latest on that?’

  ‘I spoke to the headmaster on Tuesday. He says they’d like to be at Ashingham for the spring term. Move over the Christmas holiday. But it won’t be ready, Grandmama’s fussing over the lavatories, and anyway, we agreed it did all seem a bit – pointless at the moment.’

  ‘I think he’s just trying not to alarm you. Nobody with any sense thinks this will last for long. Champagne?’

  ‘Yes please. Well, it’s hard to worry. Giles says they just sit in France listening to lectures on why they’re fighting and wondering why they aren’t.’

  ‘At least he’s in France,’ said Boy gloomily. Venetia ignored him.

  ‘And Kit’s flying happily over Scotland, safe as a bird. It’s wonderfully comforting for Mummy. She says she feels so much better about him now.’

  ‘I’m sure if Hitler knew that, he’d forget all his plans,’ said Boy lightly.

  It was an odd Christmas; everyone felt guilty that they were not suffering more. The Lyttons were all at Ashingham with the exception of Helena who was with her parents. Venetia had gone down with the children and, at their passionate request, Boy, billeted firmly in the Dovecot by Lady Beckenham, who didn’t quite approve of the arrangement. Barty, LM and Gordon were also there, and Jay, home on leave, and at the last minute Sebastian finally gave in to Izzie’s importuning and joined them. The absence of Adele was felt; she had actually tried to persaude Luc to come over to England with her, but he had refused.

  ‘It’s all that nonsense with Mummy over the Jewish thing and her Fascist friends,’ Adele wrote privately to Venetia. ‘I’m afraid the hurt went very deep in spite of her apology. And I can understand it; even while I’m saddened by it. Have fun without me.’

  They all raised their glasses to her, Venetia with tears in her eyes, and to her safety for which they were fearful.

  ‘Of course she’ll be all right,’ Boy said lightly, ‘France is well defended and anyway, can you imagine Paris ever being invaded? The French are as chauvinistic as we are, it’s why we don’t get on with them very well. They’ll see them off, never fear.’

  This wasn’t quite in accord, Venetia thought, with the picture he had painted for her over lunch of Hitler’s madness and power, but she was silent.

  There was much talk of Ashingham as a safe haven for the family as it had been in the last war.

  ‘Although I have to say to you,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘it is not as safe a haven as it was then. London has grown considerably nearer. And the bombing will undoubtedly be far, far heavier when it comes. We have to face that. But – we are on the Oxford side of Buckinghamshire, at least, not the London.’

  ‘It’s the safest we’ve got,’ said Boy, ‘and don’t say that, when we’re moving an entire school in here,’ he grinned at her, ‘you’ll frighten the horses. Not to mention the rest of us. I think it should be pretty safe. The fact of the matter is there’s no telling what will happen. We just have to – hope.’

  ‘We got pretty good at t
hat last time,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘not much else to do really. Now about this school. The main problem will be the lavatories. Apart from the more valuable paintings and smaller pieces of furniture and so on, which clearly need protection. Beckenham is having them moved into the cellars. And we’re bagging the chandeliers, all that sort of thing. Oh, and I’ve insisted no ink. All work must be done in pencil. I don’t want ink pellets thrown about the rooms. But fifty small boys, all peeing into two lavatories: won’t do.’

  ‘What about the kitchens, are they adequate?’

  ‘Perfectly. And they can have their football pitch in one of the paddocks at the side of the house. No, the lavatories are the problem. There are only two on the nursery floor, which is where the dormitories are to be. And then another one down on our floor, but that’s ours and Beckenham spends half his time in it anyway.’

  ‘Of course when the place was built, there was no such thing as plumbing,’ said Lord Beckenham, quite unmoved by this revelation. ‘What about a sanitary block? Or a latrine, that’d be splendid, I could get the gardeners to dig it—’

  ‘No, Beckenham,’ said Lady Beckenham firmly, ‘absolutely not. No, we’ll have to do a conversion, have some extra lavatories installed. I’m sure the school can afford it. Or would we get a grant from the government?’

  ‘Either way,’ said Celia, ‘you won’t be able to get it done. It’s just like the last war, there aren’t any useful men left.’

  ‘Billy and I could do it for you,’ said Jay cheerfully. ‘When I was working here before, on the roof, we learned all about plumbing.’