Tomorrow, Jerusalem

by Tomorrow, Jerusalem (retail) (epub)

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ The words were very low, all but toneless. Ben turned and left the room. Walked the few steps to the parlour, where the fire still glowed in the hearth, and the glasses of celebration stood empty about the room. On a table near the hearth, lit by the last light of the coals, a bottle stood, half empty. He picked it up, tilted it. The neck clattered unsteadily against his teeth. The champagne was warm, too sweet. He put the bottle back upon the table, sank to the floor in front of the embers of the fire, his back propped against the armchair in which his father usually sat, his legs drawn up in front of him, arms wrapped about them, his head bowed to his knees.

  Loud in the quiet, the mantel clock struck eleven.

  III

  In the long silence that followed the unimpassioned telling of the difficult tale Sally, very carefully, poured the tea.

  ‘So.’ Settled neatly upon a chair she displayed a fair imitation of composure. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Ben accepted his tea with a minimum of interest and set it on the table beside him. He looked as if he had not slept in days. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘You aren’t going to fight her?’

  ‘I can’t. She’s right in what she said. She has Rachel, and you as hostage—’

  ‘Forget me. I can take care of myself if anyone can. But Rachel? You really think Charlotte would carry out that threat?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘And—?’

  ‘The child’s life would be ruined. You know it. There’d be no way to keep it quiet.’

  Sally sipped her tea. The pleasant rooms – a sitting room, dining room, three bedrooms and a kitchen – that she had rented were very peaceful. Maire-Clare, with one look at their visitor’s face, had taken the children, with commendable lack of fuss, to the park. ‘And you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘What would happen if you divorced her – if it all came out?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You don’t care?’

  He lifted a drawn face. ‘You know I care.’

  Having forced it from him she could hardly complain. ‘And us?’ she asked very quietly.

  ‘She tells me—’ he could not, Sally noticed, in his bitterness bring himself to speak his wife’s name, ‘that providing we are circumspect she has no objection to our – liaison – continuing

  ‘That’s very good of her.’ Sally was waspish.

  ‘But—’

  ‘But only – very – circumspectly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ Sally said.

  ‘Sally—’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘Ben – listen to me. Are you going to let her do this? Are you really going to let her use the fear of scandal against you? I don’t blame her for leaving you—’ even in her pent-up state she almost laughed at the flicker of shock in his eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man – just because I love you isn’t to say that I don’t see why she doesn’t! She’s right! It was always a disaster! Surely you know that? Surely you can see why she wants Peter?’

  He turned from her, his face grim.

  She looked at him, amazed. ‘Ben. You don’t understand, do you? She’s leaving you for – for a cripple. And that hurts? You don’t see that that’s why she wants him?’

  The eyes he turned to her were narrowed.

  ‘Ben – in Peter she has everything she needs in a man. Can’t you see that? And I don’t begrudge her it. Good luck to her. What I do begrudge her is her hold over us. Over you.’

  ‘Rachel—’

  ‘Yes. Rachel. That’s the sticking point. But – Ben – she already knows. Sooner or later she’s going to have to face it. Why bring her up to live a lie? A scandal now will hurt her; but it won’t kill her. With your support – and mine—’ the last words held the trace of defiance, ‘—we could see her through it – it isn’t right – it isn’t bloody right! – for her to think that the world would despise her for something that isn’t her fault!’

  ‘She asked me – begged me—’

  ‘Well of course she did! The poor little devil’s twelve years old! She’s found herself a bolt hole in a world that’s not been kind up till now; of course she’s frightened to lose it! But it isn’t the only one! We could show her that. God Almighty, Ben, if I can live with it—’ She stopped, biting her lip.

  ‘That isn’t the same.’

  The sudden gulf that yawned between them was terrifying.

  ‘It isn’t right,’ Sally said obstinately, edging round the precipice. ‘If Charlotte wants to do what she wants to do – well and good. Let her take the consequences.’

  ‘It isn’t only Charlotte who would take the consequences.’

  Sally set down her teacup, stood up, walked to the window, stood for a long time looking into the tiny walled garden, which was shadowed by a leafless walnut tree. ‘How well she knows you,’ she said.

  The quality of the silence very subtly changed. Hostility sang in the air between them.

  Sally turned. ‘Be honest, Ben. Is it Rachel? Is it me? Or is it Sir Brian Bix-Arnold? Will you go along with this – charade – to keep your precious research post?’

  He did not reply.

  ‘Do you even know?’ she asked softly.

  The face he turned to her was all but expressionless.

  She walked back to the chair opposite him, sat down, leaned to him. ‘I won’t do it, Ben. I’ve been through three years of deception, of squalid, hole and corner love. For nothing. Over and again I swore to myself that I’d stop. But I was never strong enough. Now it’s up to you. Let Charlotte go. She can hurt nothing but your pride. If you divorce her I’ll marry you – or if you don’t I’ll live with you. But openly, Ben. I won’t – I can’t – spend my life and my love skulking in corners. If you give in now she’ll hold us to ransom for ever! Stand up to her. Stand up to the world. If you’re good enough for the job, make your Sir Brian take you, willy-nilly. If Rachel, bless her, has to face up to the fact that you aren’t her father, help her to do it now – don’t let her think that it has to be swept under the carpet in order for the world to accept her!’ Passion blazed in the slanted eyes, the always husky voice was hoarse with feeling.

  Ben leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the worn carpet at his feet.

  ‘You won’t, will you?’ Sally’s voice was suddenly very quiet. ‘You’ll let her do it to us.’

  He lifted an anguished face. ‘Sally – you’re right. About Rachel. About you. If it were just that—’

  ‘But it isn’t. Is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This job. The research post—’

  ‘I can’t turn it down. I can’t lose it. We’re so close to a breakthrough. It means so much—’

  Sally’s face had changed. The anger was gone, an odd, tired sympathy had taken its place. ‘You’ve worked so very hard—’ she said, suddenly, almost reluctantly.

  He leaned forward, his eyes intense, ‘Sally – everyone thinks they’ve fought the war to end wars. They haven’t. It will go on. One way or another, it will go on. The killing will start again; the wounding, the disease that follows it. I’ve had to watch so many die – your own friend Josie, remember? – helpless to save them once the poison had taken them. Now I have the chance – money, equipment, the chance to use the experience I gained in that filthy war! I can’t let it go. I can’t!’

  She slipped to her knees in front of him, laid her hand upon his. ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘I can’t let anything jeopardize that. I may not be able to do anything – but supposing I can? How can I give up the chance?’

  ‘You can’t. I know you can’t.’ She released his hand, sat back on her heels. ‘It’s no good, is it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s bad enough what Charlotte’s doing to you, without me hiding around every corner waiting to be caught by a prying eye—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s
what you came to tell me?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes. Though I hadn’t realized it.’ His voice was very tired.

  She turned to sit against his legs, gazing into the dying fire. ‘Perhaps it’s as well. We’ve known since France, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’ His hand rested gently upon the mass of her hair. She leaned to him. It was a very long time before either of them spoke.

  ‘I ought to go,’ he said.

  She lifted her face. Very very gently he bent and kissed her. From outside the door came the sound of light, happy voices. ‘Flippy, do wait – you’ll break your neck dashing about like that.’

  Sally scrambled to her feet, dashing a hand across her face. He stood, caught her to him, crushing her, then let her go as the door in the hall opened. ‘Shoes off, now – you’re so very muddy—’ Marie-Clare’s voice sang out.

  ‘Goodbye, Sally.’

  She said nothing. She heard his voice in the hall, bidding goodbye to Marie-Clare and the children. Then, as they erupted into the room, exclaiming at the darkness, she heard her own voice, bright and cheerful as if it belonged to someone else. ‘Well, where on earth have you three been? We thought we’d lost you. Doctor Ben couldn’t stay – but never mind – there’s muffins in the kitchen for tea—’

  Epilogue

  The summer of 1919; a world at peace, though many found it hard to believe. In Germany, in January, the National Socialist Party had been formed. In April the League of Nations was founded, a slender thread of hope for future years.

  For Sally it had been a busy winter and a busier spring as she helped Hannah and Ralph with the resettlement and repatriation of their refugees. The bleak months had passed, lightened by friendship and by the companionship of her daughter, and of Marie-Clare – who had announced her firm intention of staying in England with Sally – and little Louise. She saw nothing at all of Ben, apart from the briefest and most unavoidable social contact. The move had gone ahead: Ben now had an apartment in Oxford; Charlotte, with Peter, had moved into a tiny village not far from Maidstone in Kent. If the family found the arrangement a strange one, after a word from Ben ranks were closed and no one spoke of it. Only Bron expressed any opinion to Sally.

  ‘Funny way to carry on, if you ask me – anyone’d think it was Mr Peter she was married to – but there, the poor man needs someone to look after him, I suppose – and with Doctor Ben busy all the time—’ She had slid a small, questioning look at Sally, obviously hoping for an enlightening comment. Sally had said nothing. Bron had shrugged, accepting defeat philosophically, ‘Blessed shame, mind, about poor Mr Peter – and what he’d have done without Miss Charlotte I really don’t know – there aren’t many as would take on a crippled brother-in-law.’

  ‘No. There aren’t.’

  ‘Pass the salt, would you? These potatoes are next to tasteless!’

  Gradually, and with relief, the Bear settled back to normal life. With Ben gone Sally once more spent her time helping Hannah, who was in the throes of reorganizing her milk depot, her midwives, her health visitors. She visited Bolton Terrace just once, but could not bring herself to go back; she could not blame Bill Dickson for his inability to welcome her. She spent a lot of time with the children, Philippa and Louise, and as spring turned to summer the hurt she nursed so secretly very slowly began to heal. The time came when she no longer woke every day with the feeling of loss heavy on her heart; and a restlessness began to stir. The world beckoned. As the budding leaves of the walnut tree tentatively opened to the sunshine, Sally too began to lift her head and look about her; began to think of the future.

  The letter that brought a sudden sparkle of laughter to her eyes, and an impulsive decision to her heart came in June. Still holding it she ran into the garden, where Marie-Clare was pushing Louise on a swing they had fixed in the tree.

  ‘Marie-Clare! Would you pack a few things for yourself and the children? We’re going on a trip.’

  ‘Oh, where, Mama? Where are we going?’ Philippa, who had been impatiently awaiting her turn on the swing, flew to her, and hung excitedly on to her hand. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Aunty Fiona’s. For a little holiday.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s in the country. In a place called Yorkshire.’

  ‘Will we go on a train? Will we?’

  ‘We most certainly will. And we’ll stay in a beautiful big house. With servants. What do you think of that?’

  Philippa’s big eyes grew bigger.

  ‘Now – come on – help Marie-Clare to pack. I’m going to the post office to send a telegram.’

  * * *

  ‘So – here you are at last.’ Fiona slipped an affectionate arm through Sally’s as they strolled in the garden of Fiona’s family home. The building behind them, sleepy as a dozing cat in golden June sunshine, was huge, a rambling, pleasant maze of a house to which Fiona’s parents had welcomed their visitors warmly. ‘And about time too.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know I should have come before. But – there were things—’ Sally’s voice trailed off. ‘Your letter just seemed to come at the right time. So – yes – here we are—’

  The formal rose-trellised and fountained garden ended in a ha-ha spanned by a plank bridge. In the meadow beyond, Philippa, Louise and Marie-Clare ran hand in hand, laughing, knee deep – in Louise’s case waist deep – in buttercups. A little summerhouse looked out across fields and a river to the picturesque lift of hills beyond. Fiona sat on the bench, her eyes upon Sally, who stood leaning in the open doorway watching the children. ‘So. The – problem you had,’ Fiona asked gently, ‘it’s sorted itself out?’

  Sally bent her face to the perfumed petals of a rose she had picked in the garden, and nodded.

  ‘Are you going to tell me how?’

  Sally hesitated for a moment. ‘It’s over. That’s all.’

  ‘Dare I say – good?’

  Sally smiled. ‘You dare.’

  ‘Good. Then-good!’

  Sally turned, leaning against the door, her head tilted to the slanting rays of the sun.

  ‘Hannah’s refugees are all settled?’ Fiona asked.

  ‘Yes. Most have gone home – some wanted to stay. Hannah’s sorted them all out the way only Hannah could. She really doesn’t need me any more.’

  ‘And – she’s happy?’

  ‘With Ralph, you mean?’ Sally turned her head as the shouts of the children rose above the sound of bird song. Sunlight gilded her face and hair. ‘Oh, yes. They’re perfectly suited. He loves her dearly.’

  ‘Lucky old Hannah,’ Fiona said drily. ‘And – Toby?’

  The rose twirled gently in Sally’s fingers. ‘He’s fine. He’s going to university. To study law. He’s going to be very, very rich and very, very famous, so he tells me.’ Pensively she laid the flower to her mouth. ‘He probably will be, too.’ Another buried pain, the rift with Toby, a small, sore spot she tried not to probe. ‘I hope so.’ She strolled to the bench, perched herself beside Fiona, pulling a crumpled envelope from the pocket of her flowered cotton skirt. ‘And now, Fiona MacAdam – are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

  Fiona leaned back, stretching long legs, uncaringly elegant. ‘I’ve taken up with a bunch of fallen women.’

  Sally waited smiling, watching her.

  Fiona slanted a laughing glance. ‘And jolly good fun they are, too. To say nothing of their kids.’

  Sally made a great show of patience.

  ‘Eddie,’ Fiona said, as if the single word explained all.

  ‘Eddie,’ Sally repeated, ‘Eddie Browne introduced you to a bunch of fallen women?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She leaned forward, elbows on knees, a lock of hair falling across her broad, white forehead, shadowing eyes that were bright with enthusiasm. ‘Eddie, as you know, didn’t make it to the Mother of Parliaments. Not this time, anyway. So while he’s waiting for the call he’s set about the locals—’

  Sally grinned, ‘Physically?�
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  ‘All but. He’s on the Council. He’s wangled his way on to every committee in existence and a few that weren’t until he got there.’

  ‘Another one building Jerusalem?’ Sally’s voice was wry.

  ‘In his own way, I suppose, yes.’

  ‘With a bunch of fallen women carrying his coat?’

  Fiona was suddenly serious. ‘Sally – give him his due – he’s doing a lot of good. Shaking up the Establishment. He’s a breath of fresh air—’

  Sally laughed. ‘He’s that all right.’

  ‘Will you listen? Do you know how many girls – young women – have been left ruined by the war? Can you imagine how many fatherless children there are? How many daughters have been turned from the door, into the street to starve, because on the last night – or the first night – of their soldier lover’s leave they could not bear to let him go without loving him? Do you know how many were lied to? How many were widowed before a ring was ever put on their finger? And do you know the plight of these girls now – a child at their skirts, no family, no job, no money? No roof over their heads?’ In her enthusiasm Fiona had failed to notice the quite open gleam of amusement in her friend’s eyes. She stopped suddenly, warily, at the undisguised twitch of Sally’s lips. There was a moment’s silence before her explosion of laughter. ‘Oh, good Lord – hark at me! Teaching my grandmother to suck eggs!’

  ‘Teaching the one who invented eggs to suck eggs more like.’

  Fiona sobered, nodded. ‘These girls need help, Sally. No one knows better than you. Practical help. A roof over their heads, someone to help them care for their children so that they can earn a living.’

  ‘And this is what Eddie’s got you involved in?’

  ‘That’s right. Organizing. Fund raising – we need to buy decent places for the women to live in – employ people – oh, there’s so much to do.’

  Sally nodded thoughtfully.

  Fiona turned and caught her hands in a strong, warm grip. ‘Please – come and join us, Sally. We – I – need you – it’s difficult for me, you see – they aren’t my people, they distrust me sometimes – you can’t blame them.’ The words held no resentment.