The spring came; I took Isabella to London, then up to Cambridge to stay with Lizzie and finally to Scotland to spend August with Esmond in his remote Highland castle which he used as a country house. The long holiday did me good; gradually the memory of Rebecca’s death began to recede from the forefront of my mind, and soon I had picked up the threads of my old life and was once more enjoying myself as I had been before the disaster.
“We were having such fun!” said Isabella wistfully. “Remember?”
“And we’ll have just as much fun again,” I promised her and set out to entertain her as lavishly as possible for the remainder of 1938 and the beginning of the new year.
But time was running out for us both, just as it was running out for the rest of the world, and although we plunged ourselves with determination into a gay carefree existence as two of the gayest most carefree members of the West Country aristocracy, I knew already that our light-hearted days were numbered. Times had changed since the Spanish Civil War had turned Lizzie into a militant and me into a pacifist. A stalemate had developed in Spain, but by the time Franco’s forces finally won in 1939 everyone’s eyes were not on the triumph of facism in Spain but its triumph in Austria and Czechoslovakia. Chamberlain was Prime Minister now. During the spring and summer of 1938 “appeasement” was an honorable word implying calm and reason and patience, but that was all changed after the drama of Munich. Hysterical relief that war had been avoided gave way to shame and renewed fear, and when Hitler occupied Bohemia and Moravia in the March of 1939 appeasement was dead and with it all our blind and irrational hopes for peace.
“War is unthinkable,” I had said so often to William. “It just can’t happen.” And what I had really meant was: I don’t want to believe that war can happen again; I don’t want to believe that my life could be disrupted so unjustly because the contestants who had fought themselves to a bloody standstill twenty years before could be insane enough to assemble for a second round.
But 1939 was the year of the unthinkable, and on the first of September German armored divisions and planes invaded Poland.
The party was over. All that remained was a dog-eared photograph album of champagne memories, an empty nursery upstairs and the prospect of a long and indefinite separation to come.
TEN
Duchess Constance died in 1201… Now Duke Arthur was doubly orphaned, and had lost his last tie with the house of Anjou. He was entirely at the hands of French advisers appointed by King Philip.
—The Devil’s Brood,
ALFRED DUGGAN
“… we heard that the Lady our mother was closely besieged at Mirebeau, and we hurried there as fast as we could, arriving on the feast of St. Peter ad Vincula. And there we captured our nephew Arthur …”
—King John,
W L. WARREN quoting King John
“WHAT A BORE THESE Germans are!” said Isabella, but she was frightened.
“Doesn’t look too good, does it?” said William to me, worried, over a glass of beer at the pub. “So this is where we got with our appeasement policy! I suppose we ought to have guessed months ago that militant madmen like Hitler are simply unappeasable—or was it that we all guessed and yet couldn’t face the implications of such a horrifying truth?”
“Darlings,” Mariana wrote scratchily from Paris. “Isn’t this news the end? I’m having terrible difficulty getting away from this country now and only wish I’d left after Munich. Can you possibly lend me fifty pounds? I’ve been trying to contact Esmond but without success—he must be somewhere in the wilds of Scotland—because I thought I could come and live with him in Edinburgh at last, but now I suppose he’ll have to go away to fight and we’ll still be kept apart …”
“You won’t have to go away to fight, Jan, will you?” said my mother tremulously. “You’re well over thirty. They’ll take the young men first, won’t they?”
“Why volunteer?” said Isabella, green eyes burning in a white face. “Why not stay here as long as you can?”
“Because if everyone did that,” I said, “we’d soon have Germans at Penmarric and our children would grow up to be Nazis.”
“But we have no children! And Penmarric’s only a house—”
“Be quiet!”
“But it’s true!”
I shook her in a fit of rage; she clawed at me but then burst into tears. “Oh Jan, I’m sorry, I can’t help it, I’m so frightened, I don’t want you to go—I want a baby—”
“We’ll have a baby.”
But we didn’t.
“Oh!” cried. Isabella. “Why did we wait? Why did this have to happen to us? Why, why, why? It’s not fair!”
“No,” I said, “it’s not fair.” And once again the two-headed monster seemed to rise up before my eyes, but now the face of justice was hidden from me in a dark shroud and only the face of injustice was left exposed. My search for justice, hitherto unflagging, was now about to begin a long process of erosion until in the end it had narrowed itself down to a handful of basic elementary aims which guided my life.
The most basic of these elementary aims was simple. I wanted to stay alive. I could not face the injustice of a premature death. My second aim was to keep Penmarric solvent. I could not face the injustice of debt, mortgage and foreclosure. Finally before I was parted from Isabella I wanted to leave her with the prospect of a child. I could not face the reality that my young wife became bored too easily unless she had constant diversions to keep her occupied. My marriage had stood the test of time; well while the sun shone and we lived in our frivolous world among our rich contemporaries, but now I was frightened. There are many flowers which flourish in greenhouses but which wither away once they’re exposed to the cold air of a winter’s day.
I was afraid to leave her.
But I left. What else could I do? The phony war came to an end, France collapsed and the British Army was washed into the sea at Dunkirk. We were alone. The sun shone all the way through that beautiful summer and sometimes one could look at the splendor of the countryside and imagine that nothing was wrong, that life was just as it had always been, but of course that was an illusion, the longing to escape from a reality too terrible to face.
2
“My sermon this morning,” said Adrian from the pulpit, “is inspired by chapter seventeen of the first book of Samuel, by that passage which describes how …” He paused. There was an immense silence. Then: “How David slew Goliath,” said Adrian, and his voice rang out like steel striking sparks against a sheet of shining stone.
I met Adrian in London. He was fresh from a conference of important clerics and had been invited to give a guest sermon at St. Clement Danes. I was always sorry that church was bombed later. All through the war I carried with me the memory of sitting on my own in the midst of that full congregation and listening to Adrian as he announced to that intense, yearning silence: “David slew Goliath …”
All through the war, I never thought I would come through it all alive.
“I’ll come back, Mama,” I said dryly to my mother. “Only the good die young. Look after yourself and don’t try to do too much. I’ll write to you as often as I can.”
I hardly thought I would see her again. She was eighty now and strong for her years, but when one leaves anybody over eighty one should not take it for granted that they’ll live forever.
I hated to say goodbye.
Worst of all was to say goodbye to Isabella.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I get some leave,” I said. “With luck we won’t have too long to wait.”
She nodded, white-faced, white-lipped, her green eyes enormous in her small pinched face.
“I’m sorry there’s no—” But she could not say it. She had wanted a baby too much for too long.
I touched her soft hair. “When we next meet …”
Then I was on a train and her face was a white blur on a station platform, and injustice, cold and harsh and merciless settled down to control my life.
&nb
sp; 3
I had been a spectator through most of 1940, forced to stand helplessly on one side and watch as the fiasco in Norway led to Churchill replacing Chamberlain and the fiasco at Dunkirk led to the huge upsurge of national morale when the fiasco was transformed into a victory. However, at last the army began to notice that I had volunteered my services and I was in uniform though still waiting to be posted when the handful of pilots won the Battle of Britain and put an end to Hitler’s immediate plans to invade British soil. It was not until the last part of 1940 that my training was completed and I was shipped off to North Africa, but by that time the tide of fiascos had temporarily receded and Mussolini was receiving the first of a series of reverses which were to continue until the May of the following year.
I found myself serving in the forces commanded by General Wavell, and almost before I knew what was happening I was helping to push the Italians west to Benghazi. The campaign was a success; we took about a hundred and thirty thousand prisoners before withdrawing to Egypt. I almost allowed myself to feel cheerful about the war’s outcome and would have been appalled if I could have seen ahead to the dark months of 1941 when we were expelled from Greece and Crete and the Axis powers occupied the whole of the Balkan plains.
While I was waiting in Egypt for the next offensive to begin, my principal source of interest lay in the letters I received from home.
“Poor Isabella is quite lost without you,” my mother wrote. “I have really become very fond of her. I hardly thought she would settle down at Penmarric nearly so well as she has done, but in retrospect I don’t think you could have chosen a better wife. I’m sure you miss her as much as she misses you.”
“Your mother is very down at the moment,” wrote Isabella gaily. “Poor old dear, she misses you terribly. We have tea together every week and I try to cheer her up. Lizzie wrote from Cambridge and said she’d like to come down for a visit but didn’t see how she could get here since the chauffeur had been called up and petrol’s so tricky and awkward these days. I explained to her that there was a wonderful invention nowadays called a train which catered for all people not rich enough to have a car, and had she heard of it? I shall never cease to be amazed at how the other half lives even though I suppose I’m now part of the other half …”
“My dearest Jan,” wrote Lizzie. “I have had rather an extraordinary letter from Isabella, really quite radical. Is she perhaps a secret Socialist? If so, do tell her that I’ve been one for years. I’ve been toying with the idea of spending a few months in Cornwall to take the girls away from any risk of bombing (although I hear even Penzance is far from safe from bombing these days) but Eddy doesn’t want to leave Cambridge, and anyway I don’t really think that Isabella and I would get on very well together if I stayed for longer than a few days. Don’t take offense, my dear, but as you must know Isabella and I never quite hit it off. However, I feel sorry for her now with you away, so perhaps I will go down to Penmarric eventually to offer some sympathy … I hope she isn’t too lonely all by herself in that ghastly house. Still, she’s fond of William, isn’t she—what a good thing he left the Carnforth Hall estate and came back to look after Penmarric for you during your absence. It’s a pity he and Charity don’t live at Penmarric, but I remember you told me how Charity insisted on staying in Penzance, where she’s become so respectable, and refused to go back to live in St. Just where people have such unfortunately long memories …”
“My dear Jan,” wrote William laboriously. “As you know, the days are long past when I could write long letters, so don’t expect marvels every time you see my handwriting on an envelope! Hope all’s well with you. Everything’s more or less all right here except that little Isabella’s a bit depressed and I lent her my shoulder to cry on the other night. I thought you’d rather she cried on my shoulder than someone else’s! Only joking, of course. Just thought I’d mention it in case she wrote you a depressed letter and I thought it would reassure you to know I cheered her up a bit and that she’s feeling better now …”
“My darling Jan,” wrote Isabella. “William is such a poppet—how lucky you are to have such a nice brother. I can’t think how he can stand to be married to that horrid blowsy old ex-barmaid! She doesn’t like me at all—I can’t think why. Fortunately your mother doesn’t like her either and we have a moan about all the Roslyns from time to time. Jonas is now staying at Morvah with his Roslyn spinster aunts—no, cousins, isn’t it—and Deborah (take a deep breath!) has just entered a convent!!! Can you believe it! She and I were hardly bosom friends, but she did call at Penmarric to say goodbye before she left for Padstow …”
“… so I decided to enter the convent,” wrote my niece Deborah to me a little later. “I know Mummy wouldn’t have wanted it, but she was a person who enjoyed all the worldly pleasures of this life, and so perhaps it would have been hard for her to understand that I have never been happy in the World, where there is so much sin and suffering and evil. I shall be much happier here and already am aware of the most perfect spiritual satisfaction. After this letter I shall never again refer to any past sins, but I would like you to know that I forgive you for all the suffering you caused my mother and for leading her into the sinful path which eventually resulted in her death. I have repeatedly besought Jonas to forgive you also but regret that I have not yet had any success in persuading him; however, I hope that by the Grace of God he may be enlightened and may also find it in his heart to forgive you, as I have. I shall remember you every day in my prayers and hope that perhaps when you come home from the war you will come and see me…”
“Sir,” wrote a rude hand with bold thick strokes of a cheap pen. “As you may or may not know, Deborah has gone into a convent and can’t earn any money any more, so I’m reduced to begging from my Roslyn relations who haven’t the money to spare anyway except for Cousin Sim and his mean streak is so mean it’s a joke. None of you Castallacks have done anything for me except push me and my mother around to suit your convenience and I think it’s time I got my fair share of Grandfather Castallack’s money which you cheated me out of when you sucked up to Uncle Philip like you did when I was a kid and spread that lie about him being a homo so that my mother took fright. Could you send me fifty pounds? I’ve grown out of all my clothes and I don’t want to be the laughing-stock of the school. And in case you think I just sit on my arse begging from my relations all the time, let me tell you that I get a job every holiday and do a paper-round in the term-time and I don’t think Grandfather Castallack would have liked it to know that his grandson was just a common paper-boy at a bloody grammar school. Send the money to me care of Miss Hope Roslyn at Morvah where I’m living at the moment. And if you don’t send the money I’ll bloody well go over to Granny and make her give it to me, so if you want to make sure your mother isn’t bothered you’d better pay up. I’ll give you till the end of the month. Jonas.”
“… so there he was,” wrote my mother, “on my doorstep. He’s fifteen now, and except for Hugh’s eyes he’s the living image of his grandfather Joss Roslyn, whom I knew as a boy. Of course, thanks to your warning letter I knew what to expect. I was kind to him but firm. I said he had set about getting the money in quite the wrong way, and that if he had written to you respectfully you would have been pleased to help him, but as it was the tone of his letter didn’t encourage you to offer him any assistance whatsoever. He immediately flew into a rage. He shouted at me—in extremely vulgar language—that he had a moral right to the money, and when I told him that was nonsense he called me an old — and said I had always been against him and his mother ever since he could remember. ‘Absolute nonsense,’ I said to him. ‘You and your mother went through life ruining your own chances.’ ‘He ruined them!’ shouted Jonas (meaning you). He killed my mother! He stole my inheritance! He’s a murderer and a robber!’ ‘Kindly leave my house this instant,’ I said, ‘or I shall telephone Mr. Parrish and ask him to come over at once to remove you by force.’ He went, still cursing, and I haven’t s
een him since. What was all this nonsense about you killing Rebecca? As far as I can remember you told me that she got into trouble with one of her lodgers and then, poor foolish woman, got into worse trouble trying to extricate herself from the situation. Wasn’t this true? Incidentally, talking of women in trouble I had a most distressing letter from Mariana today …”
“My dear Uncle Jan,” wrote Esmond from India. “I hate to bother you when I’m sure you have so much on your mind these days, but I’m extremely worried about my mother. As you can see, I’m a long way from home and as I see no prospect of getting back to England in the foreseeable future I don’t know what I should do. Perhaps you would be kind enough to advise me. To cut a long story short, it appears that for some time now my mother has been in and out of homes seeking a cure for alcoholism. I didn’t know she was an alcoholic, although I did sometimes wonder how she managed to spend the money I sent her so rapidly. My father always refused to pay her a penny more than he was legally bound to pay, but I financed her in secret even before he died and have been financing her ever since. Before I went overseas she managed to get to Edinburgh to see me and it was then that I realized what was wrong. I had her put in an excellent nursing home there before I left, but now she has voluntarily discharged herself, and to be frank I have to admit she is now being a considerable source of embarrassment to the servants in my house there. Unfortunately she seems to have formed an association with an undesirable man who has been treating my house as if it were his own, so much so that in the end my butler felt compelled to sit down and write me a letter in which he said that all the servants were on the point of giving notice. I was then, as you can imagine, placed in a very difficult position. I did not want to disclose my source of information to my mother, but at the same time I had to suggest that it would be best if she left my house for a while and went somewhere else. In the end I told her that I had heard Edinburgh was not considered safe these days and I strongly advised her to go down to Cornwall for the summer out of range of all possible bombing. I did not suggest she went to Penmarric, as I hardly felt it was right to suggest she impose herself on your wife’s hospitality, and told her that it would be best if she stayed at the Metropole where she could stay as long as she liked without any embarrassment, and I naturally would pay the bill. In spite of all this I have had a letter from her today to say she has decided to go to Penmarric. I deeply apologize for any embarrassment this is going to cause you and your wife, but I don’t think I can stop her now. What shall I do? I didn’t want to write to Granny because I didn’t want her to know about my mother’s condition. If only I could get home I could probably make the necessary arrangements for her, but I don’t see how I can. Do you think I could get compassionate leave? I doubt it very much. Please forgive me for burdening you like this, but I’m simply at my wits’ end with this problem and I have no one else I can turn to. Your affectionate nephew, Esmond.”
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