* * *
The Southdown Convalescent Home nestled into softly rolling countryside a mile or so from the village of Beestone in Surrey, a brick-built manor house in eight acres of parkland. Each time that Charlotte stepped from the train on to the tiny platform of the little country halt she lifted her head and breathed the soft air with pleasure. The walk to the home was through narrow lanes, the hedgerows alive with birds and threaded beautifully with every kind of wild flower. Low, wooded hills lifted to the summer sky, gentle and green and as undisturbedly peaceful as time itself. She never hurried; there was no need. Peter would be waiting – looking for her. His face would light at her coming, like a candle lit before a shrine. His hand would reach for hers. And the golden, helpless beauty of him would fill her with that astounding, enchanting lift of love and strength, of pure, invulnerable certainty that was his gift to her. She had never been so utterly happy; had never, she knew, looked so utterly lovely. And her plans were laid, very surely.
‘I think’, she said, strolling in gentle June sunshine, the wheels of his chair crunching upon the gravelled path, ‘that we should live in the country. The air would do you so much more good. Think how pleasant it would be – French windows into a pretty garden, perhaps a little stream—’
He glanced round at her, smiling, happy to join in the game. They often did it – spoke of things that would not – could not – be, as if they were possible. ‘Bit different from the old Bear.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her answering smile was gentle, secret, ‘Very different from that.’ They had reached the top of a low ridge. Below them a small ornamental lake edged with willows glimmered like quicksilver in the sun. ‘Would you like to stop here, or shall we go on down to the lake?’
‘Can you manage that far?’
She laughed softly. ‘Silly boy. I can manage much further than that.’ With easy competence she manoeuvred the chair down the slightly sloping path, then found a flat patch of grass and turned the chair so that he should have the best view. ‘There.’ She checked the brake, tucked the blanket around his legs then arranged herself very decoratively at his feet, her skirts spread about her like the petals of a flower, her lifted face flowerlike too, the skin flawless, the blue eyes wide and bright.
He looked at her helplessly, enmeshed in her shining beauty, in the delicate almost virginal feminity of her.
She saw it, and she smiled. Then she turned a little, leaning against the chair, her knees drawn up in front of her, hands linked loosely around them. ‘I think Ralph’s going to ask Hannah to marry him at last.’
The silence lasted long enough for her to slant a small glance across her shoulder at him. He was looking at her with such a funny, astonished expression that she giggled like a child. ‘Oh, come on – Ralph’s adored Hannah ever since we were children together.’
‘Well, I know that. But – well, I suppose I just never thought he’d get round to it. Whatever possessed him?’
‘I did.’ The words were light. Charlotte had picked a small pile of daisies and was threading them into a chain. ‘I had a sisterly chat with him. Faint heart never won fair lady and all that. I mean – distant adoration’s all very well, but it’s a bit impractical, isn’t it?’
‘Do you think she’ll accept him?’ Peter was watching her with a fond mixture of amusement and surprise.
A small, indefinable expression flickered across the pretty face. ‘I hope so. She’ll be a fool if she doesn’t.’ It was no part of Charlotte’s plan to consider any such nonsense. She held up the chain, shaking it out. ‘Did you know that Ralph actually tried to get himself killed? You know – the business of the medal and all that? He told me. He swears he wasn’t being brave at all; he was trying to get himself shot. Ironic, isn’t it?’
Peter was silent.
‘He thinks Hannah knows. Or at the very least suspects.’ She added a couple more flowers to the chain, draped it across her silk-clad knees. ‘He’s writing to her. Today. Of course – if they marry—’ she hesitated, threw a swift glance at his face, ‘it would be perfect, wouldn’t it? They’re both so good with the children. So dedicated. So – when we go to live in the country – they can run the Bear.’
Not looking at him, she rose very gracefully. His eyes followed her movements, faintly, questioningly puzzled. She leaned to him, lifted slim arms to drape the chain of flowers about his neck. ‘Because we are going to live in the country, Peter, aren’t we? Just you and me – with a garden, and a stream – happily ever after.’ She did not draw away from him but leaned closer, watching him. She saw his lips part a little, saw the sudden hurt, the depth of longing in his eyes. And the moment before her lips met his in a long and gentle kiss, she smiled.
When she drew away they were both trembling. Peter’s face clenched suddenly in a grimace of anger and frustration. ‘Charlotte!’
She laid a cool hand against his lips, her other hand moving caressingly in his thick, unruly hair. ‘Don’t say anything, my love, just think about it. Think about you and me in a little cottage somewhere. Think about me taking care of you, loving you, for ever and ever. Think about summer days like this – winter evenings around the fire – No!’ She felt his involuntary movement and gently tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging at it. ‘Don’t say anything.’ She bent to him again, kissed him again, and this time his hand crept up and cupped her head, holding her to him. She drew away at last, dropping a feather-light kiss on his nose, his forehead.
He shook his head uncertainly. ‘You aren’t serious?’
She watched him, sudden, provocative mischief dancing in her eyes. Then she laughed, reaching for the handbrake, swinging the chair around, ‘Of course not. It’s a game, isn’t it? A game we like to play?’
He craned his head to look at her. His skin was golden with sunshine, the fair hair bleached to gold.
She smiled down at him.
‘Yes,’ he said after a moment, a little less than certainly, ‘of course. That’s all. A game we like to play.’
III
In the late autumn of 1917, in the month that saw the final convulsions of the Bolshevik Revolution which took Russia out of the war, and the devastation of two war-weary armies in the battle for a tiny village too appropriately named Passchendaele, Ben Patten snatched a short leave. The previous months had seen success for Allied arms at the Messines Ridge, and signs of a slow but sure advantage gained in Flanders, until the weather had again taken a hand and bogged down both attackers and defenders in a quicksand of mud that sucked horse, man and machine into its gruesome maw with indiscriminate relish. Earlier in the year there had been near revolt in the battered, blood-drained French regiments who had fought so gallantly and for so long along the Aisne. Europe was war-weary, yet still the nightmare showed no sign of ending.
The night before Ben left for England Sally lay curled against him in the narrow bed that saw all of their lovemaking, in his quarters in the château at Amiens.
‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘Going home?’ He moved a little, restlessly. ‘I don’t know. Funny, isn’t it? In a way it’s all you think of – going home – yet when it happens—’
‘Mm.’ It was a common problem. Men were known, now, actually to refuse leave, or to stay in France rather than to leave their mates and face loved ones who had so little idea of what life in the front line was like that they might have been strangers.
Sally shifted a little, rolling away from him. ‘They’re bombing London again – badly from the look of the papers.’
He had lit a cigarette. The smoke spiralled into the chill dusk of the room. ‘Yes. Since the bad raids in July the pressure seems to have been fairly steady. It’s funny—’ He trailed off. ‘
‘What is?’
‘Charlotte. I’d have thought she would have been terrified – remember how she was about the zepps? But – she seems to be taking it in her stride.’
‘Not much else she can do, is there?’ Sally’s voice, despite herself
and as always when Charlotte’s name came up, was brusque.
The small silence was not easy. ‘Sally?’ Ben said.
‘Mm?’
‘I’ve been offered a post. After the war. With Sir Brian. Research.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’
The silence this time was deafening.
He stubbed out his cigarette, turned to her, leaning on one elbow, massive above her. ‘You – know?’
‘Yes. I heard the rumour months ago.’
‘Where from?’
‘From someone who’d heard it from someone who’d heard it from someone. Come on, Ben – you know how word gets about.’
‘You didn’t say anything.’
This time she allowed the silence to develop to truly difficult proportions before saying, ‘Neither did you.’
‘I – wasn’t sure if I would take it. There didn’t seem much point in saying anything until I’d made up my mind.’
‘And now you have.’
He rolled on to his back, his eyes on the ceiling. ‘It would be utter stupidity to refuse such an offer.’
‘Yes.’
She turned back to him, her hand moving in the thick curled hair that covered his chest. ‘You’ll tell Charlotte?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘She’ll be pleased, I expect.’ Her voice was dry, ‘I daresay she could quite fancy herself as Lady Patten.’
His arm tightened about her, crushing her to him. ‘Sally – Sally!’
‘Stop it. We agreed. Now is now, and next is next. The war isn’t over yet. We could all be dead by tomorrow.’
‘Hannah said you were up at the Front again last week – dodging bullets was the way she put it. You didn’t tell me?’
Within his arms she shrugged.
‘Oh, Sally, be careful.’
‘I always am. Be careful yourself. Don’t get run over by a tram back in dear old Blighty.’
‘I won’t.’
They lay in quiet for a moment. Then, ‘This job,’ Sally said, ‘it would mean a lot to you, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. The chance really to do something. To work with the best minds – the best facilities—’
‘Jolly handy, Hannah and Ralph deciding to tie the knot at last.’
‘The Bear, you mean? Yes.’
‘So. You’ll move out? Move—’ he felt rather than saw the small, wry smile, ‘up west?’
‘Sally—’
‘All right, all right.’ She turned suddenly, sliding on top of him. Outside, unnoticed, the evening barrage had begun. The window rattled. ‘Well, given that you’re off tomorrow, Ben Patten, you might at least make your goodbye something I can remember while you’re away?’
* * *
‘A research post?’ Charlotte, pretty as a picture in green and white, her teacup precisely balanced upon her lap, smiled with the polite interest she would afford an affable stranger, ‘Is that good?’
Ben was standing with his back to the fire, the height and breadth of him dominating the room, his own teacup lost in his big hand. ‘It’s very good indeed. An honour, in fact. Sir Brian is a remarkable man. I admire him enormously. He’s brilliant in research and he has influence. I’d be a fool to turn down such a chance.’
Charlotte’s expression had not changed, there was nothing in the pleasant smile, the bright, serene eyes to indicate the sudden sharpening of her interest. ‘What – exactly – would it mean?’
‘We’d be based in London, and in Oxford—’
‘And—’ Charlotte had lowered her eyes and was tinkering delicately with the slender silver spoon that lay in her saucer. ‘The Bear? What of your work here?’
He shrugged a little. ‘That would have to go, I’m afraid – but with Hannah and Ralph here to carry on, and Pa too whilst he wants to, I won’t be too badly missed. Anyway – who knows? – with this kind of opportunity I might find myself in the position where someone actually listens to me – I can do more good under those circumstances in a year than I’ve managed in a decade fighting a bunch of bureaucratic idiots who don’t know typhus from a cold in the head.’
Charlotte nodded slowly, very thoughtfully. ‘I see.’
‘So – you wouldn’t mind?’
His wife lifted her handsome head, the innocent eyes wide. ‘Mind? Why ever should I mind? Why Ben—’ there was the slightest, acid edge beneath the pretty laughter that brought a faint flush to his face, ‘you don’t mean you’re actually asking me? Of course I don’t mind. Of course you must take it. I think it’s all rather—’ she drew the word out in capricious amusement, ‘—splendid. Oh, yes, of course you must take it. How very exciting.’
Ben drained his cup, set it on the mantelshelf. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased. Now – you’re sure you won’t come to see Peter with me?’
‘Oh, no. I don’t think so. The poor man sees quite enough of me I assure you. I’m sure he’d rather see you alone. Besides, he’ll be home very soon – we’re converting the dining room as a bed-sitting room for him, did you know? It will give him the independence he needs, but still enable us to care for him.’
‘Yes. Pa told me. He told me, too, how hard you’ve worked to help Peter. I wanted to thank you.’
Very precisely Charlotte placed the cup she held upon a small table. ‘Don’t be silly, Ben. No thanks are needed. Anyone would have done the same. Off you go. You’ll miss your train.’
* * *
‘How did Peter seem?’ Will Patten, frail, indomitable, the old eyes still windows into a soul that, despite all, found much to amuse it, tamped down the tobacco into his pipe and settled before the fire.
Ben sat in the chair opposite, elbows on knees, nursing a precious brandy. ‘Quieter than I remember him – but that’s not surprising, of course. I thought he looked remarkably well. He seems to have come to terms with his paralysis extraordinarily quickly. I must say, I wondered how he’d be once the first shock wore off – so many of them simply’, he gestured with the glass, his face sombre, ‘give up.’
‘You can hardly blame them.’
‘No.’
‘And the war? Is it true we’re on the offensive at last, or is it just flag-waving propaganda?’
‘No. It’s true. There’s a feeling that it can’t last much longer. Oh – there’s a long road ahead, but – well, it has to end sooner or later, doesn’t it? Or there’ll be nothing left.’
‘And – you think there’s a chance we’ll get there after all?’
‘More than a chance, yes. Though – who knows – Fritz may have a few surprises for us yet.’
They smoked in companionable silence for a moment. Then, ‘Good news about the research post,’ Will said gruffly. ‘I remember old Bix-Arnold. We were at Oxford together. Good man. Bumptious. Narrow-minded. Opinionated. But good. You’re doing the right thing.’
Ben hid a smile, finished his drink, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m lucky to get the chance.’
‘Nonsense, m’boy. He’s lucky to get you. Though from what I remember of old BA, wild horses wouldn’t drag it from him.’
Ben grinned openly at that, stood and stretched. ‘I’ll turn in, if you don’t mind.’
The old man nodded peaceably. Ben stood for a long moment looking down at him, affection warm on his square face. Then he touched the narrow shoulder.
‘Goodnight, Pa.’
‘Night, lad.’
A small light burned beside the bed in the pretty, feminine bedroom that he was sharing with his wife, his own room having long since been allotted its quota of refugees. Charlotte, her fair hair loose about her shoulders, the graceful folds of a rose-pink nightdress with high, frilled neck enveloping her slim body, was sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of pillows, a book upon her lap.
She glanced up as he entered, smiled coolly.
He had been home for three days and three nights and in that time they had not once made love.
Very precisely he began to remove his clothes, folding them nea
tly, stowing them in drawers and wardrobes, incongruous amongst pale and perfumed silks and satins.
‘I want to talk to you’, Charlotte said, closing her book, a finger keeping her page, ‘about Rachel.’
‘Oh?’ He shook out his cravat, folded it carefully.
‘I think she should go away to school. And soon.’
He stopped. Turned, staring at her in surprise. She outfaced the look without a tremor. ‘Go away to school?’ Ben asked.
‘Yes. She’s becoming impossible. And the influence of that dreadful school you all insist she attends is as much to blame as anything. Just because you live in a stable, Ben, it doesn’t mean you have to be a horse. I won’t have a daughter of mine growing up a gutter urchin.’ She lifted her chin and regarded him levelly, her mouth set in a straight, sure line, daring him to challenge her.
Ben said nothing for a moment. He turned back to the mirror, started to unbutton his shirt. His first sight of Rachel had been something of a shock. The child was truly beautiful; not with the fragile prettiness of her mother, but with a strong and brilliant beauty that was stormily matched by an intemperate and volatile disposition. Only he, Charlotte and Sally knew the inadmissible roots of the child’s looks and nature. Yet within moments of being with her, her thin arms thrown vice-like about his neck, the music of her excitement bubbling about him, he had been totally enchanted with her once again. ‘Oh, Papa, Papa! I’m so pleased to see you! Darling Papa! How long can you stay? Will you come with me to the park? Have you seen Flippy? She’s grown so much! And Pippa’s had puppies – do please come and see them. Oh, and Papa! I had a letter from Toby, a letter just for me! He’s been promoted – he’s a – oh I don’t know – a something else now. Isn’t he clever?’ She had gabbled and laughed, interrupting herself, kissing him, swinging about his neck, her eyes alight with love and laughter.
‘You really think she needs to go away?’
‘Yes.’ The word was flat. ‘She’s running wild. The home isn’t what it was, Ben – there are too many children and not enough help – not enough discipline. I don’t want the child growing up an undisciplined hooligan.’
Tomorrow, Jerusalem Page 51
