‘Oh, fuck off,’ he said.
‘What did you say?’ Adele was quite shocked.
‘I said fuck off. If that’s all you can offer me.’
Rage filled her: hot, almost sweet. She walked over to him, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, stubbed it out viciously.
‘You are a monster,’ she said, ‘a selfish, self-absorbed monster. How dare you talk to me like that. How dare you? How do you think I’m feeling, just now? With my Jewish lover trapped in Paris, at the mercy of the Nazis? What do you think it’s like for my children, losing their father, just like that? I saw people on that road, holding their dead children in their arms, old men weeping over the bodies of their wives, people fighting over crusts of bread. You’re not the only person who’s having a bad time. It might help to remember that.’
‘It was your choice to leave Paris. Get me another cigarette.’
‘Absolutely not. And if that’s how you talk to poor old Shepard when you want drinks and so on, I shall tell him not to do anything more for you either. What is the matter with you, Kit, why can’t you—’
‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me,’ he said, and his voice was savage now, shaking with violence. ‘I’m twenty years old. My life is over. Finished. I’m blind. I can’t do anything. I can’t even go for a walk on my own. I can’t read, I’ll never finish my degree, I’ll never have a career, I’ll just sit here and rot. And just to compound matters, the girl who said she loved me, wanted to marry me, has fucked off as well. After a very brief display of loyalty. And you ask me what the matter is. I’ve said it before, Adele, and I’m saying it again. Just fuck off. Leave me alone. And don’t let that bloody child near me again. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see anyone.’
Adele went to her room and burst into tears.
She was very unhappy. The euphoria of getting home had passed, leaving her lonely, wretched and consumed with guilt. How could she have done that? Just abandoned Luc, left him without asking him for an explanation or without giving him one. She should have talked to him, offered him at least the chance to go with her; if he was imprisoned now by the Nazis, it would be at least in part her fault. She longed to make contact with him, to know he was at least not in danger and all right; but as far as she could see, it was impossible. She had tried, again and again. The telephone network was in the control of the Germans, no letters from – or indeed to – England would be delivered. Her father had repeatedly tried to get through to Constantines without success; it seemed totally hopeless. And against all logic, the fact that he had made no contact with her hurt her dreadfully as well: surely there could have been some way, in those very early days, that he could have found of getting through, to find out what had happened to her. And if not her, the children at least. Or did that mean he was indeed imprisoned, sent away to some work camp – or worse.
And there was something else: the seduction of the captain of the boat, of which she had spoken so airily to Venetia (and to nobody else), had actually, as time passed, become more, not less, horrific to her. At the time, it had seemed sensible, an absolutely pragmatic act, one of many she was prepared to commit in order to get herself and her children to safety. Now, locked into that safety, with nothing to relieve the boredom and the guilt of it, she examined and re-examined what she had done and found herself increasingly disgusted by it. The speed with which she had suggested it – and committed it: the ease with which she had been able to set aside the physical repugnance she felt towards his fat heaving body, his slobbery mouth, his bad breath: the very real possibility of pregnancy, venereal disease and, worst of all, of risking everything and still not achieving her end: all these things rose before her night after night, in evil, foul dreams, and skin-crawling, sweating recollection.
Memories of her journey filled her head as well, the terror of the shells, the frightful things she had witnessed by those roadsides, people killed and worse, not killed, mothers searching desperately for their children, children screaming for their mothers, grown men and women fighting over water, food, a shelter for the night. She had brushed them off when she told her story to the family, hardly described them at all; now they were assuming vast proportions in her mind, increasing all the time in horror, adding to her guilt, the guilt of the survivor. For she had committed other acts of treachery against humanity, she knew, refused help to old people, food and milk to children, had fought only for her own and given way to a selfishness, a near-brutality which horrified her.
She fretted over what she had done to her children, making them witness such horrors, hear her saying no, don’t give him an apple, don’t share that bread; feared too what horrible sights and sounds were stored in their own small memories. Noni seemed all right; she cried for her father quite a lot at night, but that was healthy, and there seemed nothing she would not talk about or discuss. Indeed Adele had even heard her telling Izzie and Henry and Roo about their journey and adventures, with a certain gusto even.
She worried more about Lucas; he was only a baby, it was impossible to talk to him and therefore reassure herself, but he was quieter than he had been, clearly confused and distressed by yet more new surroundings, different people. He slept badly, waking to scream in the night (and disturbing the few blessed hours of escape she had), and could only be comforted by bottles of warm milk which he drank with a kind of fervour, and by his beloved toy cow which he still clung to as if to a lifeline. He would not even have a bath without it.
Visions of Luc being interned, sent to a concentration camp, haunted her; she imagined him dying without her having said goodbye. She was not sure any more what she felt for him: not sure if she loved him. She missed him savagely, if that counted for anything. Together they had laughed, cried, made love, conceived children; it simply wasn’t possible for that to be obliterated, there had to be something, probably a great deal, left. Yet she had simply turned her back on him and walked away; depriving him not only of herself but the children he undoubtedly loved very much.
More and more it seemed to her a most terrible thing to have done.
CHAPTER 32
This must be what hell was like, Celia thought. Fire everywhere, even the puddles were hot; as she moved along the pavement she could feel the heat from the buildings, and what seemed like sheets of fire all around her. She had got used to the bombing, the noise, to fires, to gutted ruins, they all had, but this was quite unlike anything she had ever even imagined. And she was out in it, and it felt like being absolutely alone at the end of the world.
It was 29 December. It had been peaceful over Christmas; Hitler had given them a break. Everyone had shopped, Oxford Street was crowded – in spite of John Lewis being a shell, there were a surprising number of Christmas goodies to be found everywhere, Norfolk turkeys, fine chickens and beef, plenty of wine and spirits, and boxes of liqueur chocolates. The only rationing appeared to be by price.
They had spent Christmas at Ashingham again, to keep all the children safe; only this year Jay and Boy were both missing, Jay in France, Boy in North Africa. They had been joined by Giles and Helena and their children (who were actually living with the grandparents in the comparative safety of Surrey), and Sebastian was there too, to Izzie’s great joy. Giles was due to leave England shortly after Christmas, he told them; he was quietly cheerful, Helena rather subdued. Only LM and Gordon had stayed in London; LM was very upset, Gordon had said, at Jay’s departure, and wanted to be quiet.
Everyone made a great effort to be jolly, with the exception of Kit. Not even Sebastian could make him smile, he sat stony-faced through Christmas lunch and left the room shortly before it ended. Celia ran after him and returned flushed and tearful-looking five minutes later.
Venetia was also jumpy and tearful. A brief courteous note had come for her from Boy, telling her he was going to North Africa and wishing her a happy Christmas, but nothing more; the imminence of the baby’s birth only emphasised her loneliness. She and Adele sobbed in one another’s arm
s on Christmas morning, before going downstairs to present a cheerfully united front.
‘If only, if only I could just have some kind of contact with Luc,’ said Adele, wiping her eyes, ‘just to know he’s all right, I don’t care how much he hates me, or how angry he is, I just want to know that, and to tell him I’m sorry. I just feel more desperate every day. It’s like some awful, endless nightmare. Oh, Venetia, why did I do it, why did I leave him, without even saying goodbye? What a terrible thing to have done.’
The children had all had a wonderful time . . .
They were all playing a rather noisy game of charades with the children on Boxing Day when Shepard came into the room.
‘Telephone, Lady Celia. Mr Robinson.’
‘Thank you, Shepard. Please do excuse me everyone.’
She came back into the room looking upset.
‘Apparently LM is unwell. She had a dizzy spell before luncheon today, and the doctor is concerned about her. Nothing too serious, but she has been ordered to rest. Oh, dear, she won’t like that. Well, that settles it. I shall have to go back to London first thing in the morning. Venetia, do you feel up to coming with me or do you think you should stay down here now?’
‘Oh no, I’d much rather come,’ said Venetia. ‘Honestly, Mummy, I’ve got nearly another month to go, I’ll only get miserable and grumpy down here.’ She carefully avoided Adele’s pleading eyes, her suddenly bleak expression; much as she loved her, her helpless misery was simply adding to her own.
‘Very well,’ said Celia with a sigh. ‘I wonder if we should leave tonight, the roads will be quieter and—’
‘Am I to be included in your plans in any way?’ said Oliver mildly. ‘Or should I simply make my own arrangements?’
Celia looked at him.
‘I really think it would be better if you stayed down here a few more days,’ she said, ‘you look awfully tired, and—’
‘Oh no, Celia,’ he said, and his eyes sparkled suddenly with a sharp amusement, ‘I’m not letting you get away with things that easily. I’ll find you’ve allocated half our paper ration to that dreadful book of yours.’
He was passionately opposed to the publication of Grace and Favour, having pronounced it below-stairs rubbish (‘as he does anything that might sell well,’ said Celia to Venetia), and was terrified that it would invite legal action with its semi-fictional approach to the aristocracy. Indeed, he had only been persuaded to publish it at all by the combined weight of Celia, Venetia and Sebastian, who had read it and liked it immensely.
‘You’ve got to move with the times, Oliver,’ he had said gently, ‘Lyttons needs a big seller for the spring. I think it’s marvellous. I should print – what shall we say – a couple of thousand – if I were you. No more than that, of course. And see what happens.’
‘It’ll sell by the bucket load,’ he said privately to Celia, ‘but no use telling Oliver that, nothing makes him more opposed to a book than thinking everyone’s going to like it.’
They went up to London the next day; Venetia sank into her office with a sigh of relief. It was wonderful to have something else to think about other than Boy and his new woman; what on earth would she have done without her job, she wondered, leafing through the post. There was a fat package, in Lucy Galbraith’s writing: that was good, she’d finished the last quarter. She must take it in to her mother as soon as she’d read it herself. She couldn’t wait to find out what the wicked Duchess of Wiltshire was going to do, now that her lover had joined the navy . . .
In fact she didn’t have time to read it at all that day, Celia was out visiting booksellers and Venetia had been dealing with a lot of her enquiries. The next day was a Saturday and she had felt – and clearly looked – so exhausted that Celia had most unusually made her stay in bed. The following morning, Sunday, she felt much better and insisted on going into Lyttons: ‘I’ve got such a lot to do, and I’m only going to sit about here, reading the papers and feeling sorry for myself. I really would like to go in for a bit, get some work, and bring it back here.’
‘I’d come with you,’ said Celia, ‘but I’ve promised Gordon I’d go and see LM. There are a few things I want too; I’ll give you a list. Have you got any petrol? I haven’t.’
‘Enough. What will you do?’
‘Go on the bus of course,’ said Celia. She made much of her use of public transport, which usually led into reminiscences about how she and LM had travelled to work every day by tram in the First War. Her grandchildren knew this particular speech off by heart and recited it to one another complete with grand gestures when she wasn’t listening.
‘Well don’t stay there long, Venetia,’ said Oliver. ‘I can’t believe there are going to be many more nights without a raid . . .’
‘Nonsense,’ said Celia, ‘not even Hitler would bomb London on the first Sunday after Christmas. They’ll start again tomorrow, I have absolutely no doubt of that.’
Venetia got to Lyttons at about two; she spent a very profitable two hours planning her promotional expenditure for the coming few months and then realised her back was aching rather badly – and that she ought to go home. It was also extremely cold; she was glad of her unfashionably long sable coat. The long Christmas break had left the offices icy. She went into her mother’s office and gathered together all the things that she had requested, then pulled on her sable coat, and went downstairs and out into the street with a great sense of personal satisfaction and virtue.
It was only when she was halfway home, pulling into Parliament Square, that she remembered; the manuscript of Grace and Favour was still sitting in her desk.
‘Damn,’ she said aloud, ‘damn, damn, damn.’
Apart from the fact she had planned to spend the evening reading it, the manuscript certainly shouldn’t have been left in her desk. All valuable paperwork – which included manuscripts – had to go into the big safe in the basement, it was an absolutely unbreakable rule. Normally she was very good about remembering; she supposed it was the combination of her backache, and an accompanying splitting headache, neither of which she normally suffered from – and a sense of slight disorientation at being all alone in the deserted city. Having remembered, however, she quite clearly had to do something about it.
The one precious copy of what her mother had repeatedly said was going to save Lyttons, was sitting in a wooden desk, in her second-floor office, at the mercy of Hitler and the failing water supply of London; it was not only irresponsible to leave it, it was criminally unprofessional. Lucy Galbraith didn’t make carbon copies; she had told her so herself. ‘Such a mess when you rub out.’ What was in her desk was the only copy of Grace and Favour in the world.
She told herself it would be almost certainly all right; that there was no reason why the bombing should start that night and that even if it did, there was absolutely no reason why it would target Paternoster Row. She found each argument horribly implausible. She would have to go back.
She rummaged in her bag and found a couple of aspirins for her back; she could take them when she got back to Lyttons. She swung her car round and drove back towards the City. She had just about enough petrol, she thought: it wouldn’t take long; and she would still be home before six.
Celia got home just after six; Oliver hadn’t expected her and was enjoying his first whisky of the day. This was a regular indulgence and a well-kept secret from Celia, who was very strict about his alcoholic intake; two measures a day were all that he could safely be allowed, she told him, and poured his two glasses of wine at dinner herself, while constantly reminding him that Dr Rubens had said he should have no alcohol of any kind. At which Oliver merely smiled at her sweetly and told her that he would rather have another stroke. This could be guaranteed to put Celia in a furious rage. He looked at her now rather sheepishly.
‘Instead of wine, my dear. We’re getting very low anyway.’
‘Whisky is far worse for you than wine, Oliver.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. How was LM?’<
br />
‘Not too bad. I have to say, I don’t like the look of her, though, she’s a bad colour. Gordon is worried, I can tell, only he won’t admit it. Where’s Venetia?’
‘She hasn’t come back yet.’
‘Hasn’t come back? From Lyttons?’
‘No. I was just thinking it was looking pretty dark.’
‘Well of course it’s dark, Oliver, it’s well after six. Where on earth is she? It’s too bad of you—’
‘Celia, I really don’t think even you can blame me for Venetia deciding to stay at Lyttons a little longer. I expect she became engrossed in what she was doing and—’
‘Venetia doesn’t get engrossed in anything in that way. Oh, dear. I do hope – is there any petrol in the Rolls?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Oliver, you are so – so out of touch. How can you possibly not know whether you’ve got any petrol or not? Just because you don’t drive yourself. It’s absurdly irresponsible. I shall go and look.’
The petrol gauge in the Rolls was firmly set at empty.
Celia tried to tell herself that Venetia must be all right, that they would have heard if she was not, and poured herself a Scotch twice the size of Oliver’s.
In fact, at that moment, Venetia was indeed perfectly all right. She had felt extremely tired on getting back to Lyttons and had decided to sit and read for a few minutes before leaving again. Her head and her back were both still aching severely.
She opened Grace and Favour, and was immediately engrossed; the narrative had begun with the mythical Duchess of Wiltshire’s attendance at a party where the Prince of Wales and Mrs Simpson were present; there was much fascinating detail in the diary about Mrs Simpson’s dress, and the way the Prince of Wales was so clearly devoted to her. A few pages later, the lady-in-waiting was to be found waiting anxiously outside the Albert Hall while her mistress attended one of Oswald Mosley’s rallies. Honestly, Venetia thought, it could all be about her own mother.
Something Dangerous Page 68
