The Last Summer

by Judith Kinghorn

  And all the while I could hear his voice, hear him talking; talking to Davina about America, and American music; telling her how much he loved it, how exciting the jazz scene was, how exciting the whole country was. And though I longed to be able to go and sit with him, to hear about his time there, I was jealous of that country too: jealous of America. A place I didn’t know, a place that had taken him and kept him for six years. Suddenly, that loud, brash, big continent, with all her money and modern music, was more of a threat than Davina or Penny, or any other woman in England. I hate America, I thought. And how could he love it? How could he love it if it was nothing to do with us?

  I think everyone in the room heard Davina say, “So, Tom, do tell—what was Clarissa like when she was a girl? Were you in love with her?” I looked away, closed my eyes for a moment. She was teasing, playing, I knew, but it was so inappropriate. When I turned back, he was looking straight at me.

  “Of course . . . of course I was, still am,” he said, without flinching.

  I laughed, and so did Charlie. And then Marcus appeared, handing me another glass of champagne, and said, “You do realize, we’re all in love with you, Clarissa,” and pulled me up on to my feet to dance. I was embarrassed, no one else was dancing, and as he led me across the floor he held on to me a little too tightly.

  “Really, darling, we need something with a bit more life to it!” Davina called out, and then she rose to her feet and disappeared from the room. I looked over at Tom, watching me—in contemplative pose, his index finger tapping upon his lips. I raised my eyebrows, smiled at him.

  Take me away from here . . .

  He stood up, took hold of Penny’s hand, and led her across to where Marcus and I were dancing. And for few minutes he danced with Penny as I moved with Marcus. Then he turned to Marcus. “All change!” He passed Penny’s hand to Marcus, took mine, and pulled me to him. I remember the warmth of his hand in mine, the smell of him—his cologne. But then the music changed: louder, faster. Davina had found what she was looking for. As everyone rose to their feet—to Charleston—we continued our slow dance, out of time with the music, estranged from the room. He whispered something in my ear. I looked back at him, shook my head. He leaned forward, spoke again, but still I couldn’t hear his words. And then Charlie appeared at my side. He smiled at Tom, looked at me and pointed to his wristwatch. It was time to leave. Unable to dance, Charlie couldn’t stand to watch others do the things he once enjoyed. So I shrugged at Tom, attempted a smile, released his hand and moved away.

  And after bidding our hosts good night, I picked up my bag and followed Charlie across the room. I paused at the doorway and turned. He was dancing with Davina, looking back at me.

  Thank you. Thank you for reminding me.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  That night, after Davina’s dinner party, Charlie had been in a foul mood. En route home he’d accused me of dancing only to upset and annoy him. He said I was without compassion, had no sensitivity, and that even Tom Cuthbert must have felt sorry for him: having a wife who rubbed her husband’s nose in his disability. I didn’t say much at all. I apologized, told him that I hadn’t meant to upset him, hadn’t thought.

  “But that’s just it. You never think!”

  When we reached the house, he went straight to his study, and I to my room. I locked the door and sat down upon the bed. I never quite knew what to expect, how he would be, especially late in the evening. His mood swings had become increasingly erratic, and his anger—always there, just beneath the surface—was exacerbated by alcohol.

  And that night, coming home, I’d recognized the signs: the tugging at his collar, the fidgeting and overly bright look in his eyes. I could hear him below me, shouting to himself, slamming doors; and I was frightened. We’d never spoken about that night, the night of the charity dance at the Park Lane Hotel, never acknowledged what had happened. But a few weeks later it had happened again. That time, the second time, I’d put up a fight, or had tried. He didn’t strike me, but he was rougher, angrier, more violent, and had held me down by my wrists, which I’d had to keep covered up for days afterward. The third time, as I’d tried to escape from him, out of my room, he’d struck me across my back with his stick. Not as hard as he perhaps could have done, but hard enough. After that, I’d had the broken lock on my bedroom door mended. And afterward I spent most of my evenings there, behind a locked door.

  As I sat on the bed listening to his movements downstairs, I wondered what he’d do if he came up to my room and discovered that locked door. Would he break it down? Was he capable? I thought of our cook and maid, both asleep at the top of the house . . . they’d hear, surely they’d hear. Then, at last, I heard the front door slam shut. And I lay back on my bed and cried.

  The following morning I realized I’d left my shawl at Davina’s, and I telephoned her to ask if I could call in and collect it later that day. Yes, she said, do come over; she had a monstrous headache but would love a bit of a chat. I knew immediately that she’d probably want to quiz me about Tom and, sure enough, minutes after I’d arrived there, she said to me, “So . . . come along, darling, do tell.”

  “About what?”

  “Ha! You know! About him, about Tom Cuthbert!”

  “Nothing to tell,” I replied.

  “Oh, come on, I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s perfectly obvious that you and Tom Cuthbert have had—or even are having—an affair . . .”

  “We are not having an affair, Davina,” I said, and laughed. “I can assure you of that. We had a . . . a friendship . . . a childish infatuation, but it was years ago.”

  “Well, you could’ve fooled me,” she replied. “It’s quite clear to me the man’s besotted with you. And you . . . well, really, darling—how could you not be?”

  I didn’t want to be drawn in and I wasn’t about to tell Davina Blanch anything. She was a notorious gossip; someone one only ever told those things one wished to have published without incurring any cost.

  “I wonder if he’ll get in touch with you . . .” she said, thinking aloud, excited by the possibility of another affair for her to disclose. “Or has he already been in touch with you?”

  “No, he hasn’t. He doesn’t have my telephone number, or my address. And, to be honest, I doubt he will. I’m married, Davina, and he’s engaged . . . engaged to be married.”

  She leaned back in her chair, rolling her eyes heavenwards. “You really think that stops men when they see something they want? Men like him? The only thing that makes men think is their wallet, darling. How much it will cost them. And let’s face it, Tom Cuthbert might be new money, but he’s big new money. He doesn’t need to think about his goddamn wallet. But you know, it’s a mystery to everyone where, exactly, his money’s come from. There’s talk of speakeasies, bootlegging . . . that sort of thing. Anyway, you know me, I’m not one for gossip, and who cares . . . he’s delicious material for an affair,” she added, winking at me.

  I laughed. “Really, I don’t know where his money’s come from, and to be honest, I’m not interested.”

  “I don’t believe you. I simply don’t believe you. No, not for one minute.”

  “Davina, it won’t happen.”

  “I bet poor little Pen’s distraught,” she continued. “She must have seen the way he looked at you last night. Poor little limpet. But, darling, what’ll I do if he calls me for your number?”

  “You can give him my telephone number by all means, and I’ve no doubt that I’ll see him again, at some stage, somewhere. We seem to be moving in the same circle these days. But please, Davina, don’t discuss me with him.” And as I said that I realized immediately that I’d made a fundamental error: by asking Davina not to talk to Tom about me I’d only fired her curiosity more. Now, she wouldn’t be able to help herself, she’d have to discuss me with him; in fact, she’d probably think of some pretext to call him up the very next day.

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” she said, as we made
our way back downstairs, “but seeing as it was me who brought you back together, you must keep me posted.”

  “Yes, I’ll keep you posted,” I said, “but don’t hold your breath.”

  Driving home, I wondered if I’d hear from Tom. Would he get in touch? Would he telephone? I crossed Oxford Street, heading toward home, but I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to return to that empty house, my home; and so I turned right instead of left, toward Hyde Park. And then I parked the car, walked down the street, across Park Lane, and into the park. It was a beautiful summer’s evening, not late, perhaps around six, and I walked in a southerly direction.

  I’m not altogether sure why, but I wanted to go back to that place, to try to find the tree: the tree where Tom and I had made love that night, so many years before. I walked quite briskly at first, smiling and nodding at people as I passed them. I imagine they thought I was running late for an engagement, or perhaps a mother rushing home to her children. And for a while I imagined that too. I imagined that I was heading home to a family, a husband and children: Emily and Tom. A house in Belgravia perhaps, with a glossy black-painted front door and an ornate polished brass knocker; three children . . . or even four . . . yes, four: two girls, Emily the eldest, and two boys. They’d be waiting for me in the nursery, bathed and smelling divine; creamy skinned and pink cheeked; dark eyes peering out of a high window, waiting for their mama. He’d anticipate my return too; greet me with outstretched arms, smiling. We’d climb the staircase together, hand in hand, feeling whole once more, feeling complete.

  And there she is, Emily, almost ten, the eldest of our offspring . . . standing at the top of the stairs. “Where have you been?” she says. “I’ve been waiting.”

  “I’m here now,” I reply, wrapping my arms around her. “I’m here now.”

  As I reached the southernmost point of the park, I stopped.

  Somewhere here . . . somewhere here.

  But there were so many trees: some huge, old and established; others younger, possibly planted in the intervening years. Ten years. I stepped away from the pathway onto the grass, looked back toward Park Lane and tried to remember that night: it had been dark . . . we’d crossed over, entered the park . . . walked upon grit and then grass . . . But where had we crossed? Which path had we taken? A military band played on in the distance, its vaguely familiar melody distracting me, muddling me further, and I sat down upon a bench under the beech trees of Rotten Row.

  Once, before I knew about war and death and loss, the earth had drawn me to it, pulling me into its shapes and colors, curling up around me and enveloping me in its warmth. Sometimes, I’d even fancied I could see it trembling, hear it breathing, but not anymore. The earth had no heartbeat, it had stopped, perhaps with mine; for all I could see was what I could see, and nothing more.

  I closed my eyes, half listening to the strains of a waltz drifting across the park. I am a memory, unspoken, unseen. I am but a whisper, a glance. The echo of that other time . . . the rhythm, the dance . . . Then, through the shuffle and hubbub, through the din of traffic, I recognized the music: “The Blue Danube,” my father’s favorite.

  When, eventually, I returned home, as I stood in the hallway pulling off my gloves, Sonia appeared. She told me that a gentleman had telephoned, twice: a Mr. Cuthbert, she said.

  “Was there a message?”

  “No, ma’am, but he said he’d try again later.”

  It was around 8:30 p.m. when the telephone rang out, and though I’d been sitting staring at it, waiting for it to ring, I jumped. I was on my own, had no idea when Charlie would be home and had no wish to see him. “I’ll get it!” I called out into the empty hallway, and then I closed the drawing room door and picked up the receiver. And as soon as I heard him, as soon as I heard his voice, I wanted to cry.

  There were many pauses, achingly long silences in that conversation, for at times I simply couldn’t speak. Words wouldn’t come. And so he spoke, and I listened.

  “It was wonderful . . . wonderful to see you again, Clarissa. And I’m pleased, pleased if you’re happy.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “But I wanted to call you . . .” he continued. “I want you to know that I’m not getting married.”

  “Oh, I see . . .”

  “It’s not the reason for my call, of course, but I want you to know that anyway.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It’s over between Penny and me; in fact, it was over before yesterday evening.”

  Through the crackle on the line I could hear him light a cigarette.

  “And the other thing I need to tell you . . . is that I’m going back to America.”

  I didn’t say anything. I could feel myself begin to shake. That wobbling feeling that starts deep inside and then, quite quickly, moves outside—to one’s head and hands, and legs and knees. A tremor.

  “Clarissa?”

  I nodded.

  “I really hadn’t expected to have to return—at least not yet, not now—but something’s cropped up . . . it’s difficult. It’s not . . . it’s not work, it’s a personal matter . . . but I wanted you to know, and I . . .”

  I heard him suck on his cigarette.

  “I don’t want you to think I’ve just disappeared, you see. I don’t want you to . . .”

  “I understand,” I said.

  I heard him sigh. “No, you don’t understand. I know that. You can’t understand. And I wish I could tell you more . . . but I can’t.”

  There was a silence, a long silence. And then I said, “When will you be back?”

  “I’m not altogether sure, but hopefully in a few months.”

  A few months . . . a few months . . .

  “I’d like to see you again before I leave.” He sighed again, and I could see him running his hand through his hair. “I’m sailing from Southampton next Tuesday . . . and I’ll be staying there—at the South Western—the night before.”

  Another silence.

  “Clarissa?”

  “Yes. The South Western.”

  “Next Monday . . . I’ll be there on Monday . . . Monday evening. From around six.”

  I nodded. “Yes, next Monday.”

  “From around six,” he said again.

  “Yes, around six,” I repeated, smiling.

  I can’t remember now what we said, if anything, after that.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It was Davina who found me: Davina who unlocked my bedroom door. I’m not sure what I’d intended. But I don’t think—no, I can’t think—that I’d wished for death. Or had I? I knew he’d sailed that morning, knew that he’d have waited for me the night before. But it had all been so poorly planned; by me, at least.

  Charlie said, “I don’t think so.”

  “But it’s almost a day trip, Charlie . . . after all, I shall only be staying for one night. I’ll be back tomorrow . . . I’ll be back tomorrow morning, and Edina,” I went on, referring to my cousin, who now lived at Sevenoaks, “is so looking forward to seeing me. I haven’t seen her since she had little Archie. I’ve never met him.”

  He lowered his newspaper. “I forbid it,” he said, without looking at me. And then he refilled his teacup.

  I think that’s when I stood up. And as I moved away from the breakfast table, toward the door, and toward him, I said, “I don’t care what you say . . . I’m going.”

  And then, as I passed him, he must have reached out and grabbed hold of my wrist; because I remember him holding on to it and saying, “You will not be going anywhere overnight, and you’re certainly not gallivanting off to Kent on your own, Clarissa.”

  I tried to pull my arm free. I remember that, and his grip, so tight, burning my flesh.

  The rest is all a muddle. There was a fight. I picked up his cup of tea, threw it at him. He hit me. I screamed, and then . . . and then I think I screamed again. And I said, “I’m going, Charlie, and I’m never coming back!”

  It was he who locked me in my room as I
packed. I know that.

  And I remember panicking, throwing everything movable, anything throwable—pillows, cushions, ornaments, silver and china—at the door, and shouting for him; shouting for him—or anyone—to let me out.

  Mess, mess, mess . . . Everything broken. Me broken.

  I remember the tick-tock of minutes and the chime of each hour; and lying on the carpet surrounded by tiny white feathers and slivers of porcelain. I remember daylight fading, darkness descending; barely breathing.

  And then the bottle of sleeping pills in my bedside cabinet.

  Kiss me; kiss me now . . .

  A few days later, my doctor called on me. He spoke to me about something called neurasthenia, and prescribed more pills. Of course, he didn’t know what I’d done, didn’t understand. He told me that these new pills would help my nerves. And they did. In the weeks and months that followed I glided through life, moving effortlessly through doorways and rooms, along flagstoned pavements in a dreamy mellow state, smiling. I sat in Hyde Park, lost in the cacophony of the city’s traffic: the sound of horns and whistles and motors, and the clippety-clap of hooves. I watched open taxicabs and horse-drawn delivery wagons, men with barrows and street sellers; the organ grinder, surrounded by hordes of children; the ubiquitous war veteran, balanced upon his crutch, a harmonica pressed to his mouth; and the ever-present military band, playing on in the distance. I watched people scurrying, people dawdling; courting couples and windswept picnics. I watched the world pass by, watched people for hours and hours.

  At home, I quietly arranged flowers and stared at menus. I tried to read, attempted a few books, but couldn’t quite absorb the words or sentences on those pages. I preferred to look at the pictures inside magazines and newspapers, and imagine the stories that went with them. I dined alone most evenings, waited on by the servants; the table set for one, with the very best bone china and crystal. And Charlie didn’t bother me. In fact, I hardly saw him. On the few occasions I did, he rarely looked me in the eye, and preferred to speak of mundane matters. If he felt any remorse, he neither showed nor expressed it.