After the War Is Over: A Novel

by Jennifer Robson

  Although it had been her practice for some months to eat her sandwich and have a cup of tea with the other women at lunchtime, she remained in her office, at her desk, for she felt quite unable to engage in any sort of lighthearted conversation. If her colleagues noticed, they were too kind to say anything.

  Late in the afternoon, Miss Margison brought her a cup of tea, but rather than leave when Charlotte thanked her, she instead lingered at the door.

  “If you’re feeling poorly, you ought to go home, you know. There’s nothing happening here that won’t keep for a day or two.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be all right. If I can just get through today, I’ll have the weekend to rest.”

  “Suit yourself. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

  “I will. Thank you, Miss Margison.”

  Even after the others had gone home she lingered, finishing off any number of inconsequential tasks she’d left undone for want of a quiet moment, and only when the sky outside was nearly dark and the clock at All Saints was chiming seven o’clock did she put on her coat and hat and set out for home.

  The post office was still open and wouldn’t close for another hour. She could call him, if she wished, though it was Friday night and he would likely have gone out for the evening. So there was no point in trying, for she’d only waste her shillings on a conversation with Mr. Andrews or one of the other servants. She would definitely try to call him tomorrow.

  She might try to call him tomorrow.

  At home, the others were just finishing their supper. After apologizing to the misses and Janie for her tardiness, she took her seat at table and tried, not altogether successfully, to choke down her meal of fried cod and onions. Every bite seemed to catch in her throat, rather as if the cod had been chopped into pieces and cooked with every last bone intact. It was no use.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said to the room at large. “I have a terrible headache. I think I had better put myself to bed.”

  Once cocooned in the sanctuary of her room, however, she sat on her bed, quite unable to decide on what she ought to do next. She did have a headache, likely because she had starved herself all day, and she ought to swallow an aspirin or two. Then she ought to put on her nightgown and switch off the light and go to sleep. Ought to, ought to . . .

  “Charlotte?” came a voice from the hall. “It’s Rosie. May I come in?”

  She ought to say no; say that she had already gone to bed.

  The door opened and her friend’s worried face peered around it. “Whatever is the matter with you?” Rosie asked, coming in and sitting next to her. “You’re not fretting about last night, are you? Because you were—”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “So out with it. What has you looking as if the Germans won the war?” It was such a Rosie sort of thing to say.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Of course you know. Or is the problem that you don’t know if you can tell me? Because you can, you know. You can tell me anything and I’ll still be your friend.”

  Charlotte nodded, for of course she trusted Rosie. And it would be so heavenly to simply talk about it with someone. To confide in her friend, and learn what she thought of everything, and perhaps, together, find a way forward.

  “Last night, just as I was leaving the stage, I saw Edward. Lilly’s brother.”

  “Lord Cumberland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain? If it had been him, surely he would have come round afterward to say hello.” Rosie was so very practical.

  “That’s the thing. The not knowing, if I can call it that, has been torturing me all day.”

  “Why do you hope it was him?” Rosie asked softly.

  “It’s hopeless. We agreed it was hopeless, we were both agreed.” Her eyes threatened tears again. Where on earth was her handkerchief?

  “What is hopeless?”

  “I love him. I’ve always loved him, and I discovered he feels the same way.”

  “When you spent the month with him?” To Charlotte’s relief, Rosie didn’t sound at all disapproving.

  “Yes, but we admitted it to one another only at the end.”

  “I still don’t understand why it’s hopeless.”

  “When his father died, when Edward became the earl, he was left with huge debts, and then the inheritance taxes to pay. He has to marry someone with money. It’s the only way he can do his duty to his family.”

  “What about his duty to you? People falling in love with one another—that doesn’t happen every day. Despite what films and books and songs may say, most people never even have a taste of it. And you’re going to toss that away because of something as unimportant as money?”

  “But there is simply no other way he can pay—”

  “Rubbish,” Rosie said flatly. “Rich people always have bags of money lying about, but rather than part with any they prefer to find more of it. If you truly love one another you can find a way. I know you can.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  Rosie began to pace around the room. “I think you gave in too easily. I think you convinced yourself that you didn’t measure up. That you weren’t good enough for him. You listened to the poison his mother poured in your ear and you believed it, and then you decided it was easier to let him go.” She turned to face Charlotte, her expression both accusatory and disappointed.

  Charlotte was about to answer, about to defend herself and say that it hadn’t been anything of the sort, when Rosie made for the door. Was she truly going to leave after saying such things?

  “I need to show you something. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  This conversation really was not proceeding as Charlotte had expected. Where was the sympathy? Where was the understanding shoulder upon which she could weep out her pain?

  When Rosie returned, she sat on the bed again and handed Charlotte a small leather folder. The words Atelier Frères Bouchard were stamped in gold on its front.

  Inside was a photograph of a young man in military uniform. He was in his late twenties, his expression serious, and he was terribly handsome. His dark hair had been combed neatly back from his brow, and he had lovely dark eyes. Intelligent, sensitive eyes, Charlotte thought.

  “Who is this?”

  “His name was David Cohen,” Rosie answered, her voice trembling a little. “We met in the autumn of 1917. He was a patient at the hospital, though not on my ward. He’d been injured by shrapnel, quite badly, and had been recuperating for several months already when I met him.

  “I was having my lunch in the garden and he came and sat with me. We got to talking, and I kept eating my lunch in the garden every day, just so I might see him, even once it was really too cold to be eating outside. By December he was nearly well enough to return to his unit. Just before he left, he told me he loved me. And although I knew by then that I loved him, it seemed impossible. I told him it was impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a Canadian, from Montreal, and he was Jewish. I knew my parents would never approve, and his family would be just as horrified. The thing is, he didn’t fight me. We agreed that it was for the best, and he left. He even wrote to me, once he was back in France, and I replied, but I never told him I loved him. I never suggested that he visit me when he had leave . . .”

  “What happened to him?” Charlotte asked, her heart in her throat.

  “He was killed at Soissons the following July.”

  “Oh, Rosie. Oh, my dear.”

  “I wrote to the War Graves Commission last year. They were very nice. They told me where to find his grave. I think . . . I think one day I’ll go. If only to tell him how sorry I am, and that I did love him. I never stopped loving him.”

  Charlotte embraced her friend, and then they wept together for a while. At length Rosie straightened her back, dried her eyes, and cleared her throat.

  “You must go to him. This isn’t something you can sort out over the telephone. Go tonight. If
you go now you might be able to get on the overnight service to London.”

  “But what if—”

  “I turned my back on the man I loved, Charlotte, and I will regret it for the rest of my life. Go to him.”

  The time for dithering and fretting and wondering “what if” was over. She saw that now. So she pulled her valise from under her bed and went to the wardrobe. “I must pack.”

  “That’s the spirit. Pop in a nightgown and some underthings, and a fresh blouse for tomorrow. And your brush and toothbrush and soap and so forth. I’ll fetch my black suit.”

  “But . . . I thought I could wear this,” Charlotte protested, indicating the frock she’d worn to work.

  “Do I have to drag Norma into this? No. You’ll want to go to him straight off, so you need to be dressed in your best. My suit is far nicer than that frock. And you can borrow my new coat, too.” It was a kind offer, for the garment was made of a fine, bluebell-colored wool, and beautifully tailored.

  “Should I wear the hat that Meg gave me for Christmas?”

  “The navy one with the narrow brim? Yes, do. You look lovely in it. Wait here while I bring down my things, and then I’ll go next door to the Atwaters’ and ask them to ring up a taxi to take you to the station.”

  By the time Charlotte had tidied her hair and changed into her second-best blouse, Rosie’s suit, and Meg’s hat, the taxi had arrived.

  “Thank you so much,” she told Rosie. “Will you explain everything to the misses? And the others?”

  “Of course I will. Good-bye, my friend. And good luck.”

  Chapter 31

  Charlotte’s train arrived in London at just past dawn the next morning. She hadn’t thought to go to the bank earlier in the day, so hadn’t been able to afford the fare for a sleeper berth in first class. As a result she had passed the night dozing fitfully in a third-class compartment, her sleep interrupted by the grunts and snores of the large woman seated next to her.

  From the train she went directly to the ladies’ cloakroom, for she badly needed to change her blouse, wash her face, brush her teeth, and restore her hair to some kind of order. That accomplished, she inspected her appearance in a full-length mirror by the bank of sinks. She wasn’t at her best, her eyes ringed by shadows that her spectacles utterly failed to hide, and the stark black of Rosie’s suit had a rather deadening effect on her complexion. But she would do. At the very least, she looked neat and respectable.

  Her stomach was growling alarmingly, and so she decided to first have some breakfast. What had she said to Meg on that sad evening back in December? Once you’ve eaten, it will be much easier to think and plan. Or something of that nature.

  There were several refreshment stands in the station’s great hall, but there was nowhere to sit apart from benches, and the first kiosk she passed only had a row of tired-looking hot cross buns for sale. Instead, she left the hall and entered the station’s restaurant. She had enough money left for tea and a sandwich, and then the Underground fare to Edward’s house.

  She took her time with her egg-and-cress sandwich and her cup of tea, for it wouldn’t do to rush through her meal and end up feeling poorly for the rest of the day. It was still early, only half past seven; surely Edward would still be at home.

  But there was only so long one sandwich and one cup of tea could last, and eventually there was nothing for it but to gather up her valise and handbag and go downstairs to the Underground station. Before paying her fare she took a minute to study the route map near the ticket hall’s entrance, for she wasn’t sure of the best way to reach Chelsea. When she’d been at the hospital she had used the station at High Street Kensington, but surely there must be other stations closer to Edward’s house.

  The map wasn’t really to scale, but after inspection it seemed that Sloane Square would be the closest. It couldn’t be that far from Cheyne Row—perhaps a half mile or mile at the most? After all that time penned in on the train, a walk in the spring air would do her good.

  In a little more than a half hour she was running up the steps at Sloane Square. The weather was far from glorious, for the skies were low and gray and the temperature was unseasonably cool. It certainly wasn’t the kind of day one pictured when contemplating a reunion with the love of one’s life.

  Her knock on Edward’s door was answered almost immediately by Mr. Andrews. If he was surprised to see her there so unexpectedly, he gave no sign of it.

  “Miss Brown! Do come in. How very nice to see you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Andrews. I’m very glad to see you, as well. I was hoping to see Lord Cumberland. If he’s in, that is.”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s already left for the day.”

  “Ah,” she said. She ought not to have lingered so long over her breakfast.

  “He’s gone to the clinic.”

  “Yes, the clinic. I’m not quite sure how to get there from here, I’m afraid.”

  “Were you thinking of taking the Underground? Or a taxi?”

  What should she say? That she only had money enough for one more ticket, and after that her change purse would be empty? Perhaps she had better walk over to Lilly’s and ask for her help.

  “The thing is, Miss Brown, Lord Cumberland likes to take the Underground over to Whitechapel. So that means his motorcar is still here. If you don’t mind waiting a minute or two for me to bring it around, I can drive you over.”

  “I couldn’t possibly impose,” she protested. “I’m sure you are very busy.”

  “Not at all. And he’ll be that glad to see you, and have the chance to show you around. He’s so proud of the clinic. Forever talking about it, he is. You sit here, and I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling grateful beyond words. Another journey on the Underground would have taken the starch right out of her. When was the last time she had felt so tired?

  In short order Mr. Andrews brought around the motorcar, a surprisingly modest creature compared to the luxury vehicles Edward had once favored, and helped her into the backseat.

  “It might seem a little odd, but I’m going to cross the Thames at the Albert Bridge and then go west to Tower Bridge,” he explained. “That way we’ll avoid the traffic in Westminster and the City.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “How far is it?”

  “Well, it’s about five miles as the crow flies, but there’s no such thing as a straight road in this city. I reckon it’s about seven miles or so. Should take us about half an hour, depending on whether Tower Bridge is open or not. If you don’t mind my saying, Miss Brown, you look tired. Why don’t you shut your eyes and have a rest? I’ll get you there safe and sound.”

  “You’re very kind,” she answered, although she knew she would never sleep. Instead she imagined what she would say to Edward when she saw him.

  There was the polite version, in which she asked him how he had been and if, just perhaps, he had come to see her speech on Thursday night. There was the direct version, in which she asked him why he had scurried away without coming to see her and, furthermore, why he had opened a clinic for disabled servicemen. And there was the angry version, in which she shouted at him until he admitted the truth. The truth of what, precisely, she wasn’t sure, but he was very sorry for it. At least he was in her imagined version.

  Soon they were across Tower Bridge and heading west, or at least she assumed it was west, along a largish and quite busy road. They turned right, then right again, then left, until she was thoroughly discombobulated and badly wished she had a compass. Mr. Andrews pulled up at a corner, the car half blocking the street, and switched off the engine.

  “We’re here.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, peering out her window. “That looks like a grocer’s, not a clinic.”

  “Next door. The brick building, all whitewashed? That’s the one.”

  “But there isn’t any sign.”

  He didn’t answer directly, for he’d got out and was coming round to ope
n her door. “Clinic hasn’t opened yet. They’re still fitting up the insides. Do you want me to come in with you?”

  “Oh, no. No, thank you. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”

  “I’ll wait until you’re done. If you decide to stay, or Lord Cumberland has other plans, you just let me know. But I’ll not leave you here until I know something’s been arranged. In you go, now.” And he took her elbow and urged her out of the motorcar and across the pavement to the clinic.

  She stopped at the threshold, unsure of what to do next. The room was swarming with workmen, some of them repairing the plaster cornices, some painting the window frames, some scraping the floorboards. She stood there until one of the men, a painter, noticed and approached her.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  “Yes, please. I’m here to see Lord Cumberland.”

  “One of the nurses come for an interview?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “He’s in his office. Go through that door and straight on to the back.”

  She thanked him and walked forward, the corridor stretching by some trick of light, or wishful thinking, into infinity. Yet all too soon she was at the end of it, and an open door was at her left.

  She took a small step, then another, until she was able to peek round the doorframe. Edward was at his desk, immersed in his work, surrounded by piles of ledgers and account books and a huge stack of correspondence that had been anchored, curiously enough, with a piece of broken brick.

  Charlotte stared and stared, desperate to say hello, but the word would not pass her lips. So she simply admired him, at his too-long hair falling over his forehead and his beautiful hands, and she noticed how the shadows had vanished from beneath his eyes. How he had put on a little bit of weight, just enough to soften the once-gaunt angles of his jaw and cheekbones. She saw and was glad beyond measure.

  He stopped writing and put down his pen, and then he looked up and smiled at her. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “I don’t know. Not long,” she fibbed. “You look well.”