The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

  I still thought of him, dreamed of him, but so much had changed, and my life in London had propelled me down a path he was not on. I had no idea where he was, how he felt or what he was thinking. I knew nothing other than the fact he was alive, somewhere. For news of any death traveled quickly and my mother’s continued obsession with the daily fatality list ensured an up-to-date, albeit grim, knowledge of our ever-diminishing circle of friends and acquaintances. He may have met someone, may be engaged; may even have married Gloria, I thought.

  If I’d received one letter, a note, anything at all, I’d have stopped my progression down that path. But there was nothing. He’d never written to me after our meeting at the station that day, and though I’d hoped, even prayed, that our paths might cross again, somewhere, anywhere, they had not. I’d half expected to see him at some party or other; there were always so many army personnel and officers, and I’d gone to any number searching for him among the uniforms. I’d scan rooms looking for his face, and occasionally my eyes would pick out a tall, dark-haired man in the crowd and my heart skipped a beat. But it was never him. Why would it be? He was not part of the crowd I mixed with in London. His life wasn’t there and never had been. And I was weary from longing, exhausted by my imaginings, and all those anticipated meetings and reconciliations. So I began to tell myself that Tom Cuthbert would never be part of my life again; that he was a memory.

  When Henry had come home on leave, he’d done his best to be like Papa. He’d sat in Papa’s place, assured Mama and me that all would be well. But things were changing, and changing rapidly. Unbeknown to any of us, Deyning had been mortgaged. My father, ever the entrepreneur, had taken risks on the stock market and his losses, which he’d kept from almost everyone, had in all likelihood contributed toward his ailing health. Now death duties coupled with those losses meant that Deyning would probably have to be sold. Henry had done the sums, with a lawyer, of course. It was simply too expensive to run, he said, and, with the servant problem, much too much of a headache. He’d sat down with Mama and me to try to explain this to us.

  “No,” Mama said, quite emphatically, “Deyning is your birthright, your inheritance, Henry. Things will get better once this wretched war ends . . . and then, then our lives will resume. Things will return to normal and we shall return to Deyning.”

  “I agree with Mama,” I said. “We can’t possibly sell Deyning, Henry . . . it’s our home.”

  Henry sighed, shook his head. “I don’t believe things will be the same, and, as much as it saddens me, I don’t in all honesty believe that we’ll be able to keep Deyning.”

  Mama laughed. “Rubbish! This country has survived many a war. One doesn’t start reinventing oneself simply because of a war, dear. We have to stand firm and together, and we have to hold on to all that we believe in, all that we are. Papa would turn in his grave to hear you speaking this way. Deyning was everything to him, you know that . . . and the costs, the servants, well, perhaps we shall have to do what they call economize . . . run with fewer servants, though for the life of me I can’t imagine how. But . . . if it has to be so, then it has to be so.”

  I saw Henry shake his head again, but he left it at that. There was no point in trying to convince Mama, certainly not at that time. Later, I wrote to Charlie: “Everything is changing. Nothing is fixed or certain anymore.”

  . . . Can you believe they sent his uniform home to us? Mr. D set fire to it outside in the garden, and I watched it as it burned . . . I still can’t believe he is gone, that both of them are gone, & in so short a space of time. I keep expecting one of them—both of them—to appear here, on the doorstep, in the hallway, poking a head around my door, just as they always did, bright-eyed little boys smiling back at me. And this is what I dream of, night after night. . . . I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that they were loved, and enjoyed a supremely happy childhood & youth, but yes, a part of me is angry. And, in my darkest and most private moments, & though I know it’s hideous and selfish, and that others have suffered just as much, I find myself wishing that He could have taken another, another two, and spared mine. And I wonder, am I culpable? For I let them go . . . encouraged them, and despite knowing how cruel it would be. And now I keep thinking if W hadn’t joined the RFC—hadn’t gone up in one of those wretched machines—he might still be here, & if G hadn’t been so very brave & hadn’t gone back to get that boy—he’d still be here . . . but people tell me how noble their (& my) sacrifice, and speak so poetically of Heroism. And though at first I thought I might not live, & felt all my courage slip away, & so much so that I was unable to move or feel or speak or think, it has slowly returned, enough for me to continue living. And of course, I owe it to them, and to those still here. But life will never be the same, & I shall never be the same, for something in me is broken and can never now be mended.

  Chapter Fifteen

  . . . They played a searchlight on us all through the night & then at dawn the bombardment started—the very worst I have experienced so far, with shells raining down all around us . . . it lasted an hour perhaps, no more, but so intense that my ears, head, hands and heart continued to ring & tremble & vibrate for hours afterward. Three of our horses were killed, and later, we had to load the mutilated carcasses onto a wagon and then bury them in a ready-made ditch close by. I hate this place. Hate all of it, & with every part of my being, and yet I know this hatred might very well help keep me alive . . .

  I didn’t particularly feel like going out to a party that night, but both Henry and Charlie were home on leave, and Henry was keen to be out and about “on the circuit,” as he called it. Food rationing had begun to affect everything, and though restaurants remained open, most had cut down to one or two courses, and—like the theaters—closed early. But behind shuttered windows the whoopla of a party and thumping of a piano could be heard most nights. Nightclubs had arrived in London and bands played on until the small hours; for those boys home on leave were determined to have a good time. We were all determined to have a Good Time.

  I spent longer than usual getting ready that evening. I think I almost preferred the anticipation to any actual event. Those idle hours languishing in my bath, listening to music from the gramophone next door; then selecting a gown, and jewelry. Perhaps it was because the evening still lay ahead, uncharted and unknown. It could be anything I wished for it to be. And I loved my room. Mama had allowed me to select new wallpaper and furnishings when we’d moved up permanently from Deyning, and I’d created a rosebudded sanctuary, with matching wall coverings, curtains and bedspread. It was a girlish symphony of pink, and it reminded me of the old rose garden at Deyning.

  That evening I chose to wear a navy blue satin gown, one I’d worn before, the previous week, but one Charlie hadn’t yet seen and one I knew he’d like. It suited me well, and Henry had told me I’d be “sure to capture any man’s heart in that dress.” I’d borrowed Mama’s diamond choker, again, and wore her blue fox stole over my shoulders. The three of us—Henry, Charlie and I—drove only two streets away, to drinks at the Millingtons’ before heading on to Venetia’s son Jimmy’s party on South Audley Street. Although Jimmy had been at school with Henry and Charlie, he had gone on to Oxford, not Cambridge, and he was the only one of Henry’s friends, apart from Charlie, whom I genuinely liked. I wondered then if Henry’s affair with Venetia had ended, or if it was still going on. I’d never mentioned it to anyone, and now it didn’t seem important. I no longer cared whom my elder brother was sleeping with, just so long as he was alive.

  We could hear the revelry as soon as we pulled up outside Jimmy’s. “Sounds promising,” Henry said, rubbing his hands together. Inside, the place was heaving; the hallway jam-packed with people, noise and smoke; faces I knew and a few I didn’t. Almost all of the men were in uniform and everyone seemed exuberant, over-animated. I think back now and realize there was an air of desperation at those parties; as though each one had to be better than the last; as though each one was the last.
<
br />   We’d been there a little while when Charlie and Henry disappeared off together in search of a bottle and I found myself ensconced in a corner of the hallway with Rose Millington—whom I’d just seen at her parents’ house—and a few others. I was laughing at Rose’s impersonation of her mother—she was so funny, a brilliant mimic—and as I turned away, as I turned away from her, laughing, I glanced up and saw him: sitting on the staircase, watching me. And I looked away quickly, I’m not sure why, perhaps because it had happened before; because I’d been to any number of parties where I thought I’d spotted him, only to realize it wasn’t him. I thought I’d imagined it. So, I turned again, slowly, and looked back.

  I felt my stomach tighten, couldn’t move; couldn’t even smile. And I can’t recall him moving down the staircase, but a moment later he was standing in front of me.

  “Hello, Clarissa,” he said, so close we were almost touching.

  “Tom . . . what are you doing here?”

  I didn’t mean it as it sounded. I was shocked, unprepared.

  He raised one side of his mouth, half smiling in that way I remembered. “I bumped into Jimmy on the boat train yesterday,” he said. “I saw you arrive, was on the stairs . . . thought you’d seen me.”

  I shook my head. “No . . . no, I didn’t see you.”

  His face had changed: older, thinner, and so very pale, as though he had not been out in the sun for years. Like most of the others he’d grown a mustache, and that wave of almost black hair, which had once hung down over his eyes, had gone. And those eyes—staring back into mine—seemed darker, with a new intensity, a new depth and vulnerability to them.

  “I’ve three days’ leave. I’m heading down to Deyning tomorrow,” he said, and then he frowned. “I was so sorry to hear about your father . . .”

  “And I imagine . . . I imagine you know about George,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yes, I heard. You’ve been through such an awful time, Clarissa . . . awful.”

  “No different than anyone else really. Life’s not exactly turned out the way we all expected, has it?”

  He looked down, shook his head.

  “But you’re here,” I added, desperate to lighten the ambience, “and that . . . that is good.”

  He bit his lip, looked back at me, his head tilted to one side, and I placed my hand upon his arm. “I can’t begin to imagine what’s it been like for you, Tom . . . what it must be like out there.”

  And because he didn’t speak, didn’t reply, and because I thought I needed to fill that silence with words, I continued. “And I’ve thought of you . . . I’ve wondered about you, how you are, where you are . . . and wondered if our paths would cross . . . and now . . . now they have.”

  But he said nothing. And then, for what seemed to me an interminable time, but may have only been seconds, we held each other’s gaze; and in that time, in that look, we said everything. And without any sound, without any words spoken, I heard him think my name, over and over.

  “Are you going to introduce us, Clarissa?”

  I turned. Rose was standing at my side, her eyes fixed on Tom.

  “Yes, of course . . . Rose, this is Tom . . . Tom Cuthbert, an old friend of mine, from Deyning.”

  “How do you do,” she said, extending her hand, and no doubt expecting him to take it to his lips. But he didn’t. He glanced at her, shook her hand and smiled politely, then looked back to me.

  “You must forgive me, Rose. I haven’t seen Clarissa for some time and I’m keen to hear her news . . .”

  “Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, of course, don’t mind me,” she replied, and turned back toward the others.

  It was so crowded in that hallway, with people arriving all the time, calling out to friends they recognized and loudly pushing forward. And forced even closer by the crush of that revelry, I grabbed hold of his shoulder to steady myself, and he put his arm around me and held me to him. In that great swell of bodies no one could see the firmness of his hold, my arms around him, our bodies pressed together. Neither of us spoke, we simply stood there, looking at each other, dazed by our sudden reconciliation.

  “Is Gloria here?”

  “It was nothing, Clarissa. It meant nothing.”

  “I rather think it did to her.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s the way of the war,” he said.

  “You never wrote to me.”

  He shook his head. “I wrote. Please, can we go somewhere? I think we need to talk.”

  “Yes, but I need to—” I began, but he took hold of my hand, and gripping it as though his life depended on it, he led me through that merry chaos and out of the front door.

  Outside, people loitered on the steps, smoking, and leaned against the railings in intense, intimate conversation. And it felt strange, almost illicit, to be out there, alone—with him.

  “I can’t stay out here,” I said, pulling my hand from his. “Henry’s here and he’ll—”

  “And he’ll tell your mama? Let me have a moment with you, please? Just a moment, Clarissa.”

  “But I’m cold,” I said, shivering, and he took off his regimental jacket, placed it around my shoulders, then lit us both a cigarette.

  “I wrote to you . . .” he said, and then sighed. “I wanted to tell you, wanted to tell you that day at the station. The reason you didn’t receive my letters, Clarissa, is because your mother intercepted them. She found out—don’t ask me how—about your arrangement with Broughton. And she spoke to my mother.” He paused. “She asked my mother to inform me that I was, under no circumstances, to correspond with her daughter again,” he added, imitating Mama’s voice, and pulling his jacket around me more tightly. “I wanted to write to you,” he continued. “I longed to write to you. I wanted to tell you all of this, but there was no way I could. I knew you were here, in London, but I knew that if I wrote to you here your mother would simply take my letters.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was piecing things together, running over what he’d told me in my mind. Mama had taken his letters; his letters to me.

  “Clarissa . . .”

  “Let’s walk,” I said.

  “But . . . Henry?”

  “He’ll not notice. Has he seen you? Does he know you’re here?”

  “No, I’m not sure . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Come along then,” I said, taking hold of his arm.

  We walked down the street slowly, in silence. Then, a little faster, we crossed Park Lane and entered Hyde Park. It was black and it was cold, but all I wanted was some time alone with him. All I wanted was to feel his arms around me once more and know that he was mine.

  We moved quickly across the grass, under the low branches, and then up against the damp bark, he pulled me to him. “Clarissa . . .” he whispered, taking my head in his hands, and then his mouth was over mine, his tongue wrapping itself around my own. He moved his lips down my neck on to my shoulder, murmuring my name again. And as I lifted his head I traced the contours of his face with my fingers. I found his mouth with my own, pushed my tongue into it as his hands moved up through my hair, cradling my head as we kissed. And as I sank further into a state of bliss, I heard myself say his name and drew him closer, wrapping him into me, into his jacket, so that we were cocooned, melting into the ancient tree; invisible to the world, lost in the blackness.

  And as his kisses became harder, more desperate, I felt his hands move over my breasts, down my gown to my hips; his breath quickening as he lifted folds of satin, his open mouth pressed to my neck. I heard him moan as his fingers strayed above my stockings, caressing my bare flesh. And I was lost; I was nowhere. Nothing existed other than him, his touch. I moved my hands down his back, on to his buttocks, pulling him to me. All I knew was my own desire. He was there; he was real. I couldn’t see him but I could hear him, taste him, smell him. And lost in that blindness—in the heart of a city at war—we had found each other again.

  He moved, tugging at the belt of his trousers, and then I felt his fingers: p
ulling aside silk, probing; pushing gently. I heard myself say his name again, and I didn’t care. I was conscious only of my need, his need, our hunger for each other; and then him, inside me; his hands easing me up to him, on to him; my legs wrapped around him, his mouth over mine. And all at once I was rising on a great swell; floating away from him, away from myself, up, up into the ether. I was the night, I was the darkness; I was the universe. I heard myself cry out as his body tensed, and then I heard my name, in one long, breathless shudder.

  When I opened my eyes I could see. I could see the lights of the city glinting through the trees; hear the traffic in the distance.

  “Please . . .” he whispered. “Wait for me, Clarissa. Tell me you’ll wait for me . . .”

  “I’ll wait for you, my darling. I promise I’ll wait for you.”

  We walked back across the park, hand in hand, stopping to kiss each other with every few steps. And then, as we neared the house, we pulled away. Once inside, I excused myself and went upstairs to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror: I appeared quite different, I thought. I was pink cheeked, yes, and a little disheveled. But there was something altogether changed about me. I smiled at my reflection, splashed cold water on to my face and then pressed it into the soft white hand towel. I checked my dress, pulled off my new silk camiknickers and pushed them into my evening bag. I took out my tiny hairbrush, tidied my hair; dabbed my nose with powder.

  I loved Tom Cuthbert and after the war was over we would be married. I had no doubts. Even if we had to elope, it would happen.

  Tom was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and as I descended, sidestepping people and glasses, he watched me intently, smiling. We had a new secret now. As I reached his side he slipped his hand around mine and squeezed it tightly. And then he turned in toward me. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I want you . . . again.”