‘Happy?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Not happy. John makes me happy. Well, Laurence does make me happy, wildly happy; and excited and all those things. But—oh, it’s so hard to explain. When I’m with him, I feel sort of—settled. No, that’s too comfortable. I feel as if I’ve discovered myself. Who I really am.’
‘I see. Well that sounds pretty serious. Isn’t he married?’
‘Not any more. Divorced. He wants to marry me.’
‘And—’
‘Well of course I can’t marry him,’ she said fretfully.
‘Why not? When he makes you feel yourself?’
‘Because he’s not right for me.’
‘It sounds as if he is. I’m sorry to play devil’s advocate, but—in lots of ways he sounds very right for you.’
‘But Sebastian, he’s quite—wicked. And devious. And controlling. And terribly awkward. And—’
‘Barty, love is not convenient. It doesn’t fit comfortably into our lives. The people who are right for us in theory are often not so in practice. It could be that Laurence is what you do need. God knows why. And that John, for all his kindness and gentleness is not.’
She was silent. Then, ‘So what do you think I should do?’
‘Oh my darling, I can’t tell you that. No one can tell anyone that.’
‘And what about John?’
‘Oh, you mustn’t marry him,’ he said firmly.
She stared at him.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he so clearly is not right for you. Even if you do both like Beethoven and hate boiled eggs or whatever. You wouldn’t be behaving like this if he was. It’s as simple as that. You’re too honest, too loyal.’
‘Hardly,’ she said.
‘Yes you are. If you really, really loved John, as Adele loves that wretched Luc for instance, then nothing would have persuaded you to—’
‘Cheat on him?’
He grinned at her. ‘If you like. I was going to say to go back to Laurence. He is clearly the great love of your life, however disastrous. Now then,’ he stood up, held out his hand to her, ‘I said I wouldn’t tell you what to do. I won’t. But if you do decide that John is not the man for you, then you must tell him.’
‘But Sebastian, he’s out there, fighting, risking his life, how can I? Can’t it wait till he gets home?’
‘I would advise against waiting,’ he said.
‘But why?’
‘Because this is a small world. A lot of people know you, and I would say a lot more people know Laurence Elliott. I’m sure he is not being nearly as discreet as you are. If John were to hear from someone else, and it seems entirely possible, it would be a double betrayal.’
‘You mean I’m not only a two-timer, but cowardly with it?’ She managed a smile. ‘Very attractive.’
‘You said it. I could express it more charmingly, but that’s about the size of it.’
‘Oh, Sebastian,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘I wish I was as wise as you.’
‘Darling Barty,’ said, ‘I do assure you, no life has been less wisely lived than mine. Now come on, or you’ll miss the lift with Gordon and Jay. You don’t want to have to go back with the Warwicks, do you?’
‘Not terribly,’ she said.
‘That was very well done, Mama,’ said Celia. She smiled at her mother. ‘It was a splendid day. Papa would have approved.’
‘I hope so, I did it for him.’
‘You look all in.’
‘I feel pretty much all in. You wouldn’t like a short walk, I suppose?’
‘Of course I would.’
They walked out on to the terrace and then into the meadow and towards the woods.
‘It’s going to be pretty rotten,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘without him. Sixty-eight years is a long time, I’d got quite used to him. Even the housemaids.’
‘You were a marvellous wife to him.’
‘Yes, I think I was,’ she said, ‘and in the end he wasn’t such a bad husband to me. I really don’t like James very much, you know,’ she added, a note of surprise in her voice. ‘He’s so high-handed. And he treats the servants so badly. I can see trouble for Billy, for a start.’
‘Why?’
‘Well because of Bill’s history, he tends to be a little familiar. Perfectly polite always, but—easy. Natural. I don’t see James understanding that.’
‘You don’t think he’d try and get rid of him?’
‘Not while I’m here, no. But there could be some clashes. I might warn Bill.’
‘Good idea. Will you—will you stay in the house?’
‘Of course. It’s my home.’
‘It will be Sarah’s and James’s now as well. And their dreary offspring’s.’
‘I am perfectly aware of that,’ said Lady Beckenham coldly, ‘and it’s most unfortunate. My goodness, that girl is dull. She makes Helena look quite interesting. Anyway, I shall take over some rooms for myself for the time being. And then I might move down to the Home Farm if things get difficult. Take it over and run it. The new man is having trouble with it, I think it’s too big for him. And it’s a nice house, I could be very happy there.’
It was a very nice house, a large Victorian farmhouse; but quite large. Celia looked at her mother in alarm.
‘Mama, you can’t live there alone. And talk about running a farm.’
‘Why on earth not? I’m not in my dotage yet, you know. And the stables are marvellous, better than ours in some ways.’
‘Exactly how old are you?’ said Celia curiously.
‘No business of yours. But—not far off ninety. Not far enough, in fact. Oh, dear.’ She pulled a handkerchief out of her antiquated coat, blew her nose fiercely. ‘I’m going to miss him,’ she said, ‘I can tell you that. Probably don’t want to go on too much longer.’
‘I’d back you for at least another decade,’ said Celia.
They had reached the woods now; they paused at the gate, Lady Beckenham looked out over the parkland and the farmland beyond it. It was hard to see where the one stopped now, and the other started; the parkland had been ploughed up to grow wheat and barley. But in the spring-evening light, it looked glorious, a great sweeping sheet of land meeting the sky, heavily grey with approaching rain, great red and gold banners of sunlight just pushing through. Lady Beckenham lifted her face and sniffed the air, like an old warhorse: ‘Marvellous smell,’ she said, ‘spring countryside. So sweet. Nice old place this, I must say. Glad he brought me here.’ She blew her nose again, then said, ‘Ah. Yes.’
‘What?’ said Celia, intrigued by the change of tone.
‘That.’
‘What?’
She pointed: it was Izzie and Kit, wandering through the bottom meadow, talking intently, his hand in hers as she led him carefully along the river bank.
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. They’re inseparable these days. Could be a bit of a worry.’
‘Mama, Izzie’s a child.’
‘She’s fourteen. Growing up. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Celia, ‘if you say so.’
She spoke lightly; but her heart was suddenly and horribly chilled.
CHAPTER 42
‘It’s just so bloody unfair. Rotten. I’m finding it almost unbearable.’
‘Giles—’ Helena looked at him helplessly. ‘Giles, try to—’
‘Don’t start that.’
‘What?’
‘Trying to make me feel better. I really can’t stand it. Boy, Jay, even Barty, all off, all doing their bit. And me—the marvellous lieutenant, with his MC, confined to—’
‘Barracks?’ She smiled, she couldn’t help it; he glared at her.
‘Helena, it’s not funny.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. Very sorry. But at least you’re at the War Office. You have got a job—’
‘Oh, sure. A wonderfully important job. Bloody admin. I’m not a cripple, Helena, I’m perfect
ly fit, perfectly capable of leading my men.’
‘Giles, that isn’t quite true.’
‘Of course it’s true. Oh, what’s the point of talking to you. You can’t have any idea how I feel. I’m going out.’
‘Well, take care. It’s nearly dark. We could have another raid.’
‘Good. I hope one gets me.’
He stalked out of the house; Helena watched him as he went. She did understand—or she thought she did—how he must feel. To be forbidden to take part in the invasion of France, in the biggest combined military operation of the war for a man who had proven himself so fine and so brave a soldier—this was clearly agony for Giles. After a life that had been, if not a failure then certainly not conspicuous for its success, he had found it, found his way, and gloriously so. Only to have it barred to him at this incomparably historic hour. It was very cruel. But—and Helena could see this very clearly—he was handicapped by his leg. He might have worked himself into a state of health and fitness by sheer determination and physical effort in the gymnasium, but the fact remained he could no longer run, at least not run fast, it was more of a scuttle, the bad leg pulling along behind him. There was no way he could go into battle.
‘You’d be a handicap, old chap, to your men and your fellow officers,’ his commanding officer had said. ‘Know how you feel, of course, but the company must come first. Sorry! We’ll find you something, don’t worry.’
‘Something!’ Giles had roared at Helena that night. ‘Bloody something! Pen-pushing at Whitehall, I daresay.’
And it had gone on; his fury had not abated, and much of it seemed to be directed at her and the rest of his family.
‘This is it, then.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid it is.’
She managed to smile at him, to stay brave. ‘Take the greatest care of yourself.’
‘I will.’
‘It could be awfully dangerous.’
‘Oh—phooey. This is Lucky Lytton you’re talking to. Give me a kiss. And you take care of yourself, Victoria Halifax. Shortly to be Victoria Lytton, jolly shortly now. Just the minute we’ve got this lot on the run.’
‘I will.’
‘London’s got a bit dodgier lately. I want you to remember that.’
‘I could hardly forget it.’
It was true; the bombing had begun again. It wasn’t quite like the Blitz in size and intensity, but it was serious. Ever since January, there had been raids, the sirens wailing through the night again; people were back in the shelters and in the underground, and anyone wanting to find accommodation out of London was offered free rail travel. There had been a great deal more damage done. Whole streets had been destroyed once more, both Wormwood Scrubs and Wandsworth prisons seriously damaged, Horseguards Parade badly hit, even Number Ten had had its windows blasted out; and—especially sad to Lyttons and the rest of the book world, in February, the London Library was hit, with 20,000 books lost.
Jay was off to Scotland, for some intensive training. He was still flying, training for a large-scale airborne operation—of which he did not yet know the details. He was still a lieutenant (but earmarked for promotion to captain) and a platoon commander.
As he travelled up that night on the train, there was talk, endless speculation, of when it would be: next week, next month, in May, June . . .
And of course nobody quite knew when: not exactly. Not even Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of Operation Overlord, as it was called, and his team, not even Mountbatten, not even Churchill.
But the country was getting ready: everyone joined in the endeavour with a passion which was somehow felt and shared.
‘I’m going to work in the munitions factory in Slough,’ said Adele to Lady Beckenham. ‘I feel I just have to do my bit: rather than taking stupid photographs.’
‘Quite right. They’ll be glad to have you, I’m sure.’
‘If it’s all right to leave the children every day . . .’
‘Don’t worry about the children. They need victory more than anyone.’
She rather liked the factory work: she wished she had done it before. Sitting there, in the vast building, with hundreds of other women, the sheer energy of the operation impressed her. She was making shells; the noise was incredible. Lost in it somewhere ‘Music While You Work’ and other entertainment was transmitted through the loudspeakers. She could not imagine how anyone could hear it.
They had taken her on gratefully. Every factory was working at full strength. Later, she learned that thirteen thousand aircraft, seventeen thousand tanks, and millions of bombs and shells were being turned out in those few frantic months. She only knew that, as she sat there, the noise of the machinery throbbing through her, she felt, for the very first time since she had been on the road down through France, a part of something vast and infinitely important.
Every day, as she travelled to work on the bus, people talked about the clearing of roads and railways for the invasion traffic, of how people in Sussex and Kent were being moved out of their homes, of how every building was being commandeered, of the millions of troops being moved into place. The air itself during that lovely spring throbbed with energy, with a physical excitement.
And there was something else too, Adele thought: the invasion of France, if successful—and how could it not be, with so much now on their side—would free Paris; and free Luc. It might not be so very much longer. At the very least then she would know . . .
‘Goodbye, my darling.’
‘Goodbye, Boy. Take great care of yourself.’
‘Of course. No one else to do it.’
‘Boy, it’s not funny.’
‘I know. But it is exciting. Get them on the run at last. God, I can’t wait.’
‘How much do you know?’
‘Not a lot. Only that it’ll be soon. End of May, early June. And that’s an educated guess. We’ll be told a bit more when I get there. Although not much. After all, as Mountbatten said, your most crucial weapon in an invasion is surprise.’
‘And you’ll be—’
‘Oh, God knows. Somewhere in France. On a tank. Riding high. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be absolutely fine.’
‘I do hope so,’ said Venetia soberly.
He was back with the Grenadiers: a company commander, on one of the armoured divisions. There was to be a great deal of training, on beaches and in rough waters: ‘Almost as dangerous as the real thing,’ his CO had said with relish. He imagined that either Normandy or the Pas de Calais would be their target. He rather hoped Calais; the Normandy beaches would not exactly offer a lot of shelter.
The thought of it all ending was almost unimaginable. He viewed with a certain astonishment the world where he had passed his days, on golf courses and at race meetings, even when he had been running his own auction rooms. God knew what he would do when the war was over. It would certainly have to be pretty absorbing. The more so since his wife, his empty-headed, idle wife, had become a dynamic, single-minded, powerful executive, with the entire economic running of Lyttons resting on her narrow, elegant shoulders. She was going to take some living up to. It was a slightly disturbing thought.
Well, it wasn’t over yet. They had a few little dust-ups to get through first. He had asked Giles for a drink at the Reform the night before he went; it was a mistake; Giles was morose, almost hostile.
‘I feel so absolutely bloody useless,’ he said. ‘And angry. I just don’t know how I’m going to get through it.’
‘You shouldn’t feel angry,’ Boy said. ‘You’ve done your bit and more. And you’ll be doing something pretty useful, from what you’ve said.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Giles, glaring at him, ‘but it’s awfully easy for you to say that. Off to the front line, seeing the thing through. While I sit in Whitehall twiddling dials. Or my thumbs. It’s so bloody unfair.’
‘Giles, old chap—’
‘Don’t old chap me,’ said Giles, ‘I’m a bloody good soldier—’
‘No one’s doubting
it.’
‘And how does one, slightly gammy leg change that? Change my ability to inspire, to direct, to lead—’
‘And run, Giles?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘This is going to be an appalling battle. Really appalling. A bit like our fight out in the desert, a killing match, as Monty put it. Anyone not absolutely one hundred per cent physically fit is going to be a serious liability. You must see that, Giles—’
But Giles had gone, leaving his whisky and soda half drunk, the door of the club door banging furiously. Boy stared after him, feeling, for once, a certain sympathy with Helena.
‘We’re being moved down to the south coast,’ said Barty, ‘to Rye.’
‘Oh God. God, I wish you didn’t have to do this dangerous thing.’
‘Well, I do. And I’m glad.’
‘When are you going?’
‘In a week. We’ll be in tents, apparently.’
‘Tents. It sounds horribly vulnerable.’
‘Yes, well there certainly aren’t any underground shelters there. Apparently we’ll have Morrison shelters.’
‘In the tents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Barty. I wish I could stop you.’
‘Well, you can’t. Any more than anyone can stop any of it.’
‘And—do you get any more leave?’
‘Yes. Twenty-four hours. Sunday to Monday.’
‘Thank God. I’ll be waiting for you.’
He had a key to her house; he had filled it with treasures for her. Fine furniture—but perfectly chosen, nothing large, nothing ostentatious, some exquisite chairs, a Regency table, some Persian wall rugs, a French mirror, some paintings.
At first she was angry: ‘This is my house, how dare you take it over?’
‘Barty, why not? It’s ours now, everything is ours, life is ours, this is mine and my houses are yours, it’s so simple, why can’t you see?’
And later, when she had recovered from the shock, she was touched, touched by the care and thought he had put into his choices. Later, other more personal things were waiting for her, a diamond watch from Cartier, a mink coat, silk negligees, a drawer full of nylons, Chanel scent . . .
Something Dangerous Page 83
